Book 3 - The White Rose Read Free Page A

He lacked only one
key. Find it and he could make contact, could begin drawing out
instead of putting in.
    Jasmine sneered. “Why did I get into this? My mother
warned me.”
    “It’s Stancil we’re talking about, woman. Our
only.”
    “Ah, Bo, don’t call me a cruel old lady. Of course
I’ll welcome him. Don’t I cherish him, too?”
    “Wouldn’t hurt to show it.” Bomanz examined
the remnants of his inventory. “Nothing left but the worst
junk. These old bones ache just thinking of the digging I’ll
have to do.”
    His bones ached, but his spirit was eager. Restocking was a
plausible excuse for wandering the edges of the Barrowland.
    “No time like now to start.”
    “You trying to get me out of the house?”
    “That wouldn’t hurt my feelings.”
    Sighing, Bomanz surveyed his shop. A few pieces of time-rotted
gear, broken weapons, a skull that could not be attributed because
it lacked the triangular inset characteristic of Domination
officers. Collectors were not interested in the bones of kerns or
in those of followers of the White Rose.
    Curious, he thought. Why are we so intrigued by evil? The White
Rose was more heroic than the Dominator or Taken. She has been
forgotten by everybody but the Monitor’s men. Any peasant can
name half the Taken. The Barrowland, where evil lies restless, is
guarded, and the grave of the White Rose is lost.
    “Neither here nor there,” Bomanz grumbled.
“Time to hit the field. Here. Here. Spade. Divining wand.
Bags . . .  Maybe Tokar was right. Maybe I
should get a helper. Brushes. Help carry that stuff around. Transit. Maps. Can’t forget
those. What else? Claim ribbons. Of course. That wretched Men
fu.”
    He stuffed things into a pack and hung equipment all about
himself. He gathered spade and rake and transit. “Jasmine.
Jasmine! Open the damned door.”
    She peeped through the curtains masking their living
quarters.
    “Should’ve opened it first, dimwit.” She
stalked across the shop. “One of these days, Bo, you’re
going to get organized. Probably the day after my funeral.”
    He stumbled down the
street grumbling, “I’ll get organized the day you die.
Damned well better believe. I want you in the ground before you
change your mind.”
     
----

----

Chapter Four:
THE NEAR PAST: CORBIE
    The Barrowland lies far north of Charm, in the Old Forest so
storied in the legends of the White Rose. Corbie came to the town
there the summer after the Dominator failed to escape his grave
through Juniper. He found the Lady’s minions in high morale.
The grand evil in the Great Barrow was no longer to be feared. The
dregs of the Rebel had been routed. The empire had no more enemies
of consequence. The Great Comet, harbinger of all catastrophes,
would not return for decades.
    One lone focus of resistance remained, a child claimed to be the
reincarnation of the White Rose. But she was a fugitive, running
with the remnants of the traitorous Black Company. Nothing to fear
there. The Lady’s overwhelming resources would swamp
them.
    Corbie came limping up the road from Oar, alone, a pack on his
back, a staff gripped tightly. He claimed to be a disabled veteran
of the Limper’s Forsberg campaigns. He wanted work. There was
work aplenty for a man not too proud. The Eternal Guard were
well-paid. Many hired drudgework taken off their duties.
    At that time a regiment garrisoned the Barrowland. Countless
civilians orbited its compound. Corbie vanished among those. When
companies and battalions transferred out, he was an established
part of the landscape.
    He washed dishes, curried horses, cleaned stables, carried
messages, mopped floors, peeled vegetables, assumed any burden for
which he might earn a few coppers. He was a quiet, tall, dusky,
brooding sort who made no special friends, but made no enemies
either. Seldom did he socialize.
    After a few months he asked for and received permission to
occupy a ramshackle house long shunned because once it belonged to
a sorcerer