Sons of the Oak Read Free Page A

hills in the crisp evening air.
    â€œTime to go,” Borenson said, turning his horse; the others fell in line.
    But the image of the cottage lingered, and Fallion asked, “The widow Huddard, she … makes a lot of her own things. She sells milk and vegetables, honey and whatnot?”
    â€œAnd your question is?” Waggit asked.
    â€œShe lives well from her own labors. But I was born a lord. What can I make?”
    Fallion thought of the craftsmen at the castle—the armorers, the alewives, the master of the hounds, the dyers of wool. Each jealously guarded the secrets of his trade, and though Fallion suspected that he could master any of those trades, he had no one to teach him.
    Waggit smiled with satisfaction. “The common folk manipulate things, ” he said. “Blacksmiths work metal, farmers till the land. That is how they earn their living. But a lord’s art is a greater art: he manipulates people. ”
    â€œThen we are no better than leeches,” Fallion said. “We just live off of others.”
    Sir Borenson sounded so angry that his voice came out a near roar.
“A good lord earns his keep. He doesn’t just use others, he empowers them. He encourages them. He makes them more than what they could become by themselves.”
    Maybe, Fallion thought, but only because they know that he’ll kill them if they don’t do what he says.
    With a sly grin, Waggit added, “A lord’s craft can indeed be marvelous. He molds men. Take Sir Borenson here. Left to his own devices, he is but the basest of clay. He has the natural instincts of a … cutthroat—”
    â€œNay,” Daymorra threw in with a hearty laugh. “A lecher. Left to his own ways, he’d be a lout in an alehouse, peddling the flesh of young women.”
    Borenson blushed, the red rising naturally to his face, and laughed. “Why not both? Sounds like a good life to me.”
    â€œBut your father turned Borenson into a lawman,” Waggit said. “And there are few better. Captain of the Guard, at one time.”
    Fallion gave Borenson a long look. Fallion had heard that Borenson had been powerful indeed—until his Dedicates had been killed. Now the guardsman had no endowments of brawn or of speed or of anything else, and though he had the respect of the other guards, he was the weakest of them all. Why he had not taken new attributes was a mystery that Fallion had not been able to unravel.
    Fallion knew that there were dangers in taking endowments of course. Take the brawn from a man, and you become strong, but he becomes so weak that perhaps his heart will fail. Take the grace from a woman, and suddenly you are limber, but maybe her lungs won’t unclench. Take the wit from a man, and you have use of his memory, but you leave an idiot in your wake.
    It was a horrible thing to do, taking an attribute from another human being. Fallion’s mother and father had abhorred the deed, and he felt their reluctance. But why had Borenson turned away from it?
    Borenson wasn’t a real guard in Fallion’s mind. He acted more like a father than a guard.
    Waggit said softly, “The shaping of men is a—”
    There was an odd series of percussive booms, as if in the distance up the mountain, lightning struck a dozen times in rapid succession. The sound was not so much heard as felt, a jarring in the marrow.
    Waggit fell silent. He’d been about to offer more praise for the Earth King. But he often worried about praising Fallion’s father in front of the boys.
Gaborn Val Orden was the first Earth King in two thousand years, and most likely the last that mankind would see for another two thousand. He cast a shadow that covered the whole world, and despite Fallion’s virtues, Waggit knew that the boy could never come close to filling his father’s boots.
    Waggit had an odd sensation, glanced up the hill. Almost, he expected to see the Earth King