Part 9 (1/2)
”The Bold,” Harold put in reverently.
”Aye,” his father said with a grave smile, ”our good Queen Mehar the Bold descended into the bowels of the castle and there forged her blade, weaving into it the most powerful of her mother's spells.”
”Right away, or did she have to practice sword-making?” Reynauld asked. ”It is, as you might not know Father, a rather complicated business.”
Harold watched their sire look at his eldest son over the top of the book. ”It says that she did take a goodly bit of time at the task, son. And Ingle, the steelsmith, did take an especial interest in aiding her, for by then Gilraehen and Mehar had searched all the pages of Elfine's book and discovered many potent spells of defense and protection- which Ingle found much to his liking-”
”And what of the bride price?” Imogen interrupted impatiently. ”And the price on her head? Did the king pay both?”
”He would have-” their sire began.
”And likely still would be-” interjected their mother.
”But,” their father said with a smile thrown his wife's way, ”the price on Mehar's head was satisfied because the dastardly Prince of Hagoth was persuaded to take another of Angesand's daughters to wife.”
”How horrible!” Imogen exclaimed.
”Aye, well, Hagoth wed Sophronia of Angesand, beat her once, then found himself encountering a piece of meat too large for his throat at table two days later-and there is some question as to whether or not Sophronia was cutting his meat that day, though it doesn't say here-and died, unmourned. Sophronia took over his affairs, corralled his children, and wed herself to a man quite content to let her manage him, so perhaps it wasn't so horrible after all.”
”But what of the bride price?” Harold persisted. ”The king paid a goodly price for Queen Mehar, didn't he? It seems as if he should have, she being such a capital fellow and all.”
”Never fear, son,” their father said, ”it says here that a premium price was paid. The king gave our good Lord of Angesand a queenly amount of his gold, a pair of the finest brood mares left him, then laid an enchantment of excellence on Angesand's stables-an enchantment, I might add, that took nigh onto two weeks to do properly.”
”Still in force, I'd say,” Reynauld said pragmatically. ”Pa.s.sing good steeds, those beasts from Angesand. Fleet of foot and fearless in battle. Strong. Courageous. Wouldn't mind having one myself.”
At this point, he looked at his father expectantly.
”I'll think on it,” his father promised. ”Those horses of Angesand's come dear.” He looked at Harold. ”Any further questions, my lad?”
”What was Queen Mehar's dowry?”
His father smiled. ”Why, Fleet, of course.”
”And what happened to Lothar?”
His father seemed to choose his words carefully. ”He was wounded, but not mortally. He is Yngerame of Wychweald's son, after all, and because of that has untold years to count before his tally is full. He could live on endlessly.”
”But you don't think so,” Harold said. He'd overheard- very well, he'd eavesdropped, but how else was a lad to find out anything interesting in a hall where the conversations changed course so quickly each time a child appeared within earshot?- he had overheard his sire and his dam speculating on this very subject more than once.
His father looked at him sharply-perhaps he hadn't been careful enough-then sighed. ”I think,” he said slowly, ”that Lothar will continue until he is slain. His evil is strong and he feeds on the fear he inspires in those around him. It is an endless supply of energy to him. How he will meet his end, in the end, I cannot say.”
”And his sons?” Reynauld asked, looking, for once, more concerned about affairs of the realm than he was in obtaining the horse of his dreams.
”I don't think they match him in power,” their father said quietly.
”But I thought Lothar was a faery tale,” Imogen said in a low, quavering voice. ”One you made up to frighten us when we asked for that kind of thing. I didn't think he was real.”
Their father closed the book and smiled easily at her. ” 'Tis perhaps just that, my love. After all, few claim to have seen him. Mayhap he was just a simple man who lived and died long ago-”
There was a knock, then a servant came in, leaned down, and whispered into their sire's ear. Their father excused himself quickly and went out.
”More tradespeople?” Imogen asked hopefully, her face alight with the expression Harold immediately recognized as enthusiasm over the possibility of more fabric. She even shot him a look, a.s.sessing no doubt his current state of grubbiness and how that might affect her plans.
”Mother, must I go into the merchant business?” Reynauld asked, kneeling over his battlefield. ”I would so much prefer to be a warrior. On one of Angesand's finest war horses,” he added casually.
”Merchantry is an honorable profession,” his mother said placidly.
”It seems a tiresome business,” Reynauld said. ”Messengers arriving at all hours, having to closet yourself with them at all hours, endless discussions, endless bolts of cloth. You would think,” he added, ”that father would have chosen a more likely spot for his house, wouldn't you? Nearer the Crossroads, perhaps in the duchy of Curach, somewhere other than so far north that our most frequent arrivals are snow and ice and the only reason we have green, tender leafy things to eat is because I stoke the fires each day in that accursed gla.s.s house to keep them warm!”
And then, apparently fearing he'd said too much, he shot his mother an apologetic look, rose, then trotted off, to no doubt stoke more fires.
Imogen rose as well, with the excuse of needing to go examine her supply of red silk and see if it was sufficient. Harold watched them go, then watched his mother thoughtfully for some time. The Book of Neroche lay on a heavy, richly carved table next to her chair. He glanced at it, then back at his mother's scarred hands. Some of the scars were round, silvery circles of uneven shape, as if she'd been burned by stray sparks.
He blinked, feeling a great mist begin to clear from his mind.
Burns. Stray sparks. Stray sparks from a smithy perhaps?
He looked at the rest of his mother. Her hair was dark, piled on top of her head in what at the start of day was a quite restrained bun. By evening, though, it always looked as it did this evening: riotously curly and relentlessly falling off the top of her head to cascade down past her shoulders.
He thought about her killing that spider.
He wondered why indeed it was that they lived so far in the north. Why men came to see his sire at all hours. Why his sire was gone for long periods of time without a better explanation than he'd been off looking at silks.
Something he seemed to have no affinity for when he was home, truth be told.
Harold pondered yet more on questions that suddenly demanded answers. Why had he never met any of his mother's kin? Why did his father command such deference from the men who came to see him? Why did his mother oft sit in her weaving chamber, whispering quietly over what she wove in a tongue he could not understand?
Reynauld never thought past his pretend battles; Imogen was content with her wares, so if they asked and were given vague answers, they never questioned further. Harold suspected the days of his doing that were over.
He sat up, walked across the rug on his knees and knelt before his mother, the questions burning in his mouth. His father called her my lady, and his mother always called his father my lord. Indeed, as he looked back over his memories, he couldn't remember them calling each other anything else.
At least within his earshot.
Surely there was more to them both than that.
”Who are you?” he asked.
She looked at him in surprise, but it was followed so quickly by a gentle smile that he almost believed he'd imagined her first reaction.
”I am your mother who loves you, son.”
He took his mother's hand. ”Where did you get these burns?”
”From a fire.”
”Is your sire alive? Your dam?”
She tilted her head to one side. ”You're full of questions tonight.”
”Well?”