Shadow of a Dark Queen (8 page)

Passing through the kitchen, Erik found his mother standing by the door, looking at the night sky, ablaze with stars. All three moons were down this night, a rare occurrence, and the display was always worth a moment to observe.

“Mother,” said Erik quietly as he started to move away.

“Stay awhile,” she said softly, a request and not an order. “It was a night like this I met your father.”

Erik had heard the story before but knew his mother was struggling with something that had occurred while she spoke to the smith. He still didn't fully understand what had happened in his mother, but he knew she needed to speak. He sat down on the steps beside where his mother stood.

“Otto had come to Ravensburg for the first time as Baron, after his father's death two years before. He had attended the Vintners' and Growers' reception for him, and after drinking with the town leaders, he had gone for a walk to clear his head. He was brash and quick to dispense with protocol, and had ordered his servants and guards to leave him alone.”

She stared into the night, calling up memories. “I had come down to the fountain with the other girls, to flirt with the boys.” Erik recalled his own last visit to the fountain with Roo and realized the practice
was long established. “The Baron came into the lantern light and suddenly we were a bunch of awkward children.” Then Erik saw a spark in his mother's eyes, and heard an echo of the spirit that had captivated men's hearts before he was born. “I was as awed as the rest, but I was too proud to show it,” she said with a rueful smile, and years dropped away from her. Erik could imagine the impact such a sight after an evening spent drinking must have had on the Baron as he spied the beautiful Freida at the fountain.

“He had court manners, and rank, and riches, and yet there was something honest in him, Erik: a little boy who was as afraid of being sent away as any other boy. He was twenty-five, and young for that age. But he swept me off my feet, with sweet words and a wicked humor in them. Less than an hour later he had bedded me under a tree in an apple orchard.” She sighed, and again Erik was put in mind of a young girl, not this woman of iron he had known all his life.

“I had a terrible reputation, but I had never known another man. He had known other women, for he was sure, but he was also tender and gentle and loving.” She glanced at her son. “In the dark, under the stars, he spoke of love, but the next day I thought I'd never see him again and counted myself just another foolish girl taken in by a nobleman's charms.

“But against any hope of mine, he came to me a month later, in the late afternoon, alone, astride a horse flecked with foam from a hard ride from his castle. Hidden by a large cloak, he had slipped into the inn as we were readying for the night's trade, and there he sought me out and revealed himself. To my
astonishment, he professed love and asked for my hand.” She gave a bittersweet laugh. “I called him mad and ran from the inn.

“Later that night, I returned to find him waiting at this very spot, like a common farmhand. He again told of his love for me, and again I told him he was bereft of sense.” Tears gathered in her eyes. “He laughed and said he knew it seemed that way, but after taking my hand and gazing into my eyes, he kissed me once and convinced me. This time I knew why I had gone with him the first time—not because of his rank and station, but because I loved him as well.

“He cautioned me that none must know of our love for each other until he had journeyed to Rillanon to petition King Lyam for my hand, for tradition bound him to his liege lord's pleasure. But to seal our love, and to provide me with a claim, we spoke our vows in a small chapel used during the harvest, with an itinerant monk who had been in town less than a day, conducting the ceremony. The monk made a pledge not to speak of the vows until Otto gave him leave, and left us alone, for the next morning Otto planned to leave to see the King.”

Freida was silent a moment; then her tone took on a familiar bitterness. “Otto never returned. He sent a messenger, your friend Owen Greylock, with news that the King had denied his petition and had instructed him to wed the daughter of the Duke of Ran. ‘For the good of the Kingdom,' Greylock said. Then he said the King had ordered the Great Temple of Dala in Rillanon to declare the wedding annulled, and had the order placed under Royal Seal, so as not to embarrass Mathilda or any sons she might bear. I
was advised to find a good man and forget Otto.” Tears ran down her cheeks as she said, “What a shock good Master Greylock got then when I told him I was with child.”

She sighed and reached over and gripped her son's arm. “As my time neared, rumors circulated about who was your father, this merchant or that grower. But when you were born, and quickly became the image of your father in his youth, no one denied you were Otto's boy. Not even your father will deny it publicly.”

Erik had heard the story a dozen times before, but never told quite this way. Never before had he thought of his mother as a young girl in love or of the bitter rejection she must have felt when news of Otto's marriage to Mathilda had come. Still, there was no profit in living for yesterday. “But he never acknowledged me, either,” said Erik.

“True,” agreed his mother. “Yet he left you this much: you have a name, von Darkmoor. You may use it with pride, and should any man challenge your right you may look him in the eye and say, ‘Not even Otto, Baron von Darkmoor, denies me my night to this name.' ”

Erik reached up and awkwardly took his mother's hand. She glanced at him and smiled her stiff, unforgiving smile, but there was a hint of warmth in it as she squeezed his huge hand, then released it. “This Nathan: I think he may be a good man. Learn what you can from him, for you'll never have your birthright.”

Erik said, “That was your dream, Mother. I know little of politics, but what I have heard in the taproom leads me to believe that should you have had the
High Priest of Dala himself as witness in the chapel that night, it would count for little. The King, for reasons known best to him, wished my father married to the daughter of the Duke of Ran, and thus it was, and thus it would always have been.”

Erik stood. “I will need to spend some extra time with Nathan, letting him know what I can do, and finding out what he wishes me to do. I think you're right: he's a good man. He could have sent me packing, but he's trying to do right by me, I think.”

Impulsively, Freida threw her arms around her son's neck, hugging him closely. “I love you, my son,” she whispered.

Erik stood motionless, uncertain how to respond. She spared him the need by letting go and turning quickly into the kitchen; shutting the door behind her.

Erik stood a moment, then slowly turned and moved toward the barn.

As the months passed, things fell into a routine at the Inn of the Pintail. Nathan blended in quickly, and after a while it was hard to recall what the inn had been like with Tyndal as smith. Erik found his new master a fount of information, as much of what Tyndal had taught him had been basic, solid smithing but Nathan knew much that made the work above-average, even exceptional. His knowledge of the different requirements for weapons and armor opened a new area for Erik, for Nathan had been the Baron Tolburt's own armorer in Tulan at one time.

One day the sound of hooves upon cobbles caused Erik to look up from where he held a hot plow blade Nathan was hammering for a local
farmer. The slender figure of Owen Greylock, the Baron's Swordmaster, appeared as he rode his mount around the barn from the rear court of the inn.

Nathan took away the blade and plunged it into water, then set it aside as Erik came to stand next to the horse, holding her bridle as Greylock dismounted.

“Swordmaster!” said Erik. “She's not lame again, is she?”

“No,” said Owen, indicating that Erik should see for himself.

Erik ran his hand along the horse's left foreleg as Nathan approached, then motioned the youngster to stand aside. Nathan examined the horse's leg. “This is the horse you told me of?”

Erik nodded.

“You say it was this suspensor tendon, was it?”

Greylock looked on with approval as Erik said, “Yes, Master Smith. She had pulled it slightly.”

“Slightly!” said Greylock. He had an angular face, made even more stern by a severe hairstyle—high bangs, with most of the rest cut straight around the nape of his neck—which split into a smile, serving to make him even more unattractive, for his teeth were uneven and yellowing. “Totally blown, I should say, Master Smith. Puffed up to the size of my thigh, and the mare could barely stand to put weight on it. I thought I'd have to send for the knackers, for certain. But Erik had a way, and I'd seen his work before, so I gave him the chance and he didn't disappoint.” Shaking his head in mock astonishment, he said, “ ‘Slightly.' The lad's too modest for his own good.”

“What did you do?” Nathan asked Erik.

“I wrapped her leg in hot compresses at first. There's a drawing salve the healing priest at the Temple of Killian makes that makes your skin feel hot. I used that on her leg. I hand-walked her and wouldn't let her pull again, even if she got rammy. She's spirited and wanted to bolt more than once, but I put a stud chain over her nose and let her know I'd have none of it.” Erik reached over and patted the mare on the nose. “We became pretty fair friends.”

Nathan stood and shook his head, obviously impressed. “For the four months I've been here, Swordmaster, I've been hearing of this lad's skill with horses. Some of it I took to be local pride felt by his friends.” Turning to Erik, he smiled and put a hand on his shoulder. “I don't say this lightly, lad. Perhaps you should put aside your apprenticeship as a smith and turn your hand to healing horses. I am self-admitted indifferent in healing animals, though I will put my shoeing work up against any man's, but even I can see this horse is completely sound, as if she had never been injured.”

Erik said, “It's a useful skill, and I like to see the horses healthy, but there's no guild . . .”

Nathan was forced to agree. “True enough. A guild is a mighty fortress and can shelter you when no amount of skill can save you from”—he suddenly remembered the Baron's Swordmaster was standing a few feet away—“many unexpected ends.”

Erik smiled. He knew what the smith had been about to say had to do with the long-standing rivalry between the nobility and the guilds. Started as a means to certify workmen and guarantee a certain minimum standard of skill, the guilds had become a political force in the Kingdom over the last century,
to the point of having their own courts to adjudicate matters within each guild, much to the irritation of the King's courts and the courts of the other nobles. But the nobles were too dependent upon the quality assurance of the many guilds to do more than grumble about flouting authority. But often one of the craft guilds had saved a member from some injustice at the hands of a noble. Despite a long tradition of responsible nobility in the Kingdom, there were always one or two minor earls or barons who thought they could simply ignore a debt. Having a patent of arms from the King did not ensure wealth, and more than one noble had attempted to use rank and position rather than coin of the realm to settle his
debts.

Erik distracted Greylock. “Swordmaster, what cause brings you to Ravensburg this day?”

The usually serious Swordmaster's face returned to its usual dour expression. “You, Erik. Your father rides to Krondor on state business. He'll be here this evening. I came early to see if . . .”

“If I could prevail upon my mother to let him alone?”

Greylock nodded. “He's not well, Erik. He shouldn't be making the journey and . . .”

“I'll do what I can.” He knew promising was vain should his mother take it into her head to repeat her performance of the last time Otto came through the town. “She may have finally gotten over making me the next Baron.”

Greylock made a sour face. “I would be out of place to comment on that.” Then he softened his expression. “Trust me on this. If you can, stand by the corner of the town road where the sheep meadow ends and the first vineyard begins, on the east side of
the town, before sunset.”

“Why?”

“I can't say, but it's important.”

“If my father is so ill, Owen, what cause has he to ride to Krondor?”

Greylock mounted his horse. “Ill news, I'm afraid. The Prince is dead. It will be announced to the populace by royal messenger later this week.”

Erik said, “Arutha is dead?”

Greylock nodded. “He fell and broke his hip, I've been told, and died of complications. He was an aging man, nearly eighty if I have it right.”

Prince Arutha had been a fixture in Krondor all of Erik's life and his mother's before him. Father to the King, Borric, who had succeeded Arutha's brother Lyam only five years earlier, he had been the man most responsible for peace in the Kingdom, by all accounts.

To Erik he was a distant figure; certainly, Erik had never seen the Prince, but he felt a small stab of regret. By anyone's measure he was a good ruler and a hero in his youth. As Greylock turned the mare around, Erik said, “Tell my father I will stand where he asked.”

Greylock saluted and lightly touched spurs to the mare's flanks, and she trotted out of the inn courtyard.

Nathan, who had come to understand a great deal of Erik's history in the months he had been living at the Pintail, said, “You'll want some extra time to clean up.”

Erik said, “I hadn't thought of that. I was just going to leave at suppertime.” It was late spring, and sunset came close to an hour after supper. Erik would
need most of the hour to make it to the other side of Ravensburg, and through the vineyards to the sheep meadow, but only if he went in his dirty clothing.

Nathan playfully hit Erik on the back of the head with his open hand. “Dolt. Get yourself cleaned up. Sounds important.”