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e first was to see his daughter again。 The second was to survive until his grace returned so he would waken among Raj Ahten's Dedicates； able to fight。
Yet over the years； Eremon's hopes faded。 Raj Ahten's facilitators drained too much grace from him； left him near death。 Robbed of flexibility； his arms and legs became useless； so that he lay as stiff as in rigor mortis。
Life became torment。 The muscles in his chest contracted easily enough to let him inhale； but afterward for long moments he had to consciously relax in order to exhale。 Sometimes； his heart would clench and not open； and he'd struggle silently； fearing death。
Unable to relax his lips； he spoke with difficulty； through clenched teeth。 He could not chew。 If he swallowed anything but the weak broth Raj Ahten's servants fed； it sat like lead in his stomach； the muscles in his gut could not contract enough to digest it。
To empty his bladder or pass a stool was an embarrassment； a process requiring hours of work。
His five endowments of stamina had bee a burden； for they kept him alive long after he wished for death。 Often he'd wished that King Sylvarresta would slay the men who served Eremon as Dedicates。 But the King had been too soft； and so Eremon languished。 Until last night。 Now； at last； it seemed that death was within reach。
His fingers curled into useless fists。 He had lain for years in a ball； bent at the hips。 Though endowments of brawn kept him strong； some muscles in his legs and arms had atrophied。 So he'd lain imprisoned in weakening flesh； knowing he'd never get vengeance； a helpless tool of Raj Ahten。
Thus it seemed miraculous when his first dream came true； when Raj Ahten decided to take him to Heredon and throw his failing body in front of King Sylvarresta。 The deed was supposed to shame the good king。 Raj Ahten often went to great lengths to shame a man。
It had seemed miraculous when Eremon saw his daughter Chemoise。 She'd grown beautiful； no longer the freckle…faced child of his memory。
Seeing her had been enough。 Eremon now felt his life was plete； hereafter he'd take a long slide into oblivion。
Yet one deed more lay before him。 As he languished in the Dedicates〃 wagon； it began to shake as men climbed onto the buckboard； opened the door。 Slowly； Eremon opened his eyes。 In the dark wain； flies rose in clouds from forlorn Dedicates around him。 Men and women were crammed together like salted minnows in a keg； lying on beds of moldering hay。
Facilitators in gray robes stood huffing by the open door。 Shafts of sunlight stabbing into the room blinded him； but Eremon could see that they'd set a body against the wall。 A new Dedicate。 Another victim。
〃What have we here？〃 the guard asked。 〃Metabolism？〃
The facilitator nodded。 Eremon could see the scars on the mana dozen endowments of metabolism he'd taken； and now he served as a vector。
Raj Ahten's facilitators looked for a place to lay the newcorner。 A blind Dedicate who slept next to Eremon rolled in his sleep； huddling for warmth next to a limp rag of a man。
Thus a slim spot opened beside Eremon； and now the facilitators muttered in their own tongue； 〃Mazza； halabdaoabo〃〃Here； move this brick of camel dung。〃
One man nudged Eremon's stiff legs aside； as if he were the brick in question。 They lay the new Dedicate beside him。
Eremon stared into the fat face of the eunuch Salim al Daub； not five inches from his own。 The fat man breathed oh so slowly； in the way of one who has given metabolism。 The man who held Eremon's endowment lay next to him； defenseless。 A vector for metabolism。 A vector； Eremon suspected； for Raj Ahten。
Salim slept a deep slumber from which Eremon swore he'd never wake。
A guard sat in the wagon； an Invincible on a stool in the far corner； wearing a curved dagger and bored expression。 Eremon could not risk moving quickly； could not attract attention； but； then； he'd not moved quickly in six years。
For long minutes Eremon slowly tried to unclench his right hand。 This unclenching came hard。 He felt too excited； too wrathful。 A thrill took him； for if he could destroy this man； he would win a double boonhis own endowments back； while he robbed Raj Ahten of metabolism。
Yet outside； a battle raged。 Darkness strobed the sky； glimpsed as shadows and light breaking into the wagon。 Men were screaming on the castle walls。
Eremon wished that he still had his endowments of strength； wished he could throttle Salim with supernatural finesse。 But those had been lost last night。
For many long minutes he worked to open his damned； useless hand。
Suddenly； as he struggled； Eremon felt a great burning desire。 Strike。 Strike now if you can！
And as the thought filled him； his hand suddenly unclenched as effortlessly as a flower opening。
Chapter 51
ON A MOUNTAIN TRACK
Borenson felt more than half…crazed when he rode from Bannisferre。 He was possessed； only partly conscious。 He imagined the havoc he'd wreak upon Raj Ahten's troops。
ing from the north； he saw no signs of battle。 Too many hills and mountains sheltered Longmont from his view。 He could see no darkening skies； for the low clouds sweeping over the mountains blackened everything。 Once he thought he heard cries； but he heard them distantly and thought them voices from some waking dream； a remnant of the fantasies of destruction that played in his mind。
South of the mountain village of Kestrel； he turned aside on his trail； spurred his mount over the forest track； hoping to make better time。 He had hunted these hills often with his king。 He was a bit north of Groverman's hunting retreat； a lodge both large and fortable。
He did not fear wights or beasts of the wood。 He feared only that he'd reach Longmont too late。
As he climbed the mountains； the day turned cold。 An icy drizzle soaked him； made the mountain trail slippery。 Soon rain turned to sleet and snow； so that he lost more time by taking this trail than if he'd stayed to the road。
High in the hills where aspens bordered a glade； he saw sign of a reaver…tracks crossing the wooded trail。 The reaver had dragged something heavy through here within the past few hours； just before dawn。 Red blood clots lay on the ground； with bits of oily synovial fluid from a cracked joint。 The scuff marks where the creature had been dragged still had tiny balls of clay rolled in them。 Very recent marks。
The imprint of the reaver's track was nearly three feet long； two wide。 Four toes。 A female。 A big female。
Borenson stayed on his horse as he studied the trail。 Among a jumble of sharp stones lay some black hairs。 It looked as if the reaver had dragged a carcass across the road； perhaps a boar。 But the hair was too fine for a boar。 Borenson sniffed。 Bear； definitely。 A big male。 As musky as the scent of Dunnwood's boars； but not as dirty。
Borenson sniffed again； tried to catch the scent of the reaver； but smelled nothing。 Reavers were uncanny in their ability to mimic the scent of their surroundings。
Borenson looked up the trail； wishing that he could track the reaverif only for a moment。
Myrrima could be in danger。 Mostly likely； Raj Ahten would lay siege for a bit； spend the day resting； preparin