Shadow of a Dark Queen (9 page)

Erik thanked Nathan and hurried to the forge. Below the pallet in the loft where he slept, behind the ladder, sat a trunk with all of Erik's belongings. He took out his one good shirt and carried it over to the washbasin. Removing his dirty shirt, he took the harsh soap and some clean rags and worked feverishly to rid himself of as much dirt as possible. At last he felt presentable and put on his good shirt.

He hurried out of the barn and went to the kitchen, where food was being placed upon the table as he entered. Sitting down, he drew a suspicious look from his mother. “Why are you wearing your good shirt?” she asked.

Not willing to share his father's request for a meeting with his mother, lest she demand to accompany him and force a confrontation, he muttered, “I'm meeting someone after supper,” then started noisily eating the stew placed before him.

Milo, who was sitting at the head of the table, laughed. “One of the town girls, is it?”

This brought an alarmed look from Rosalyn, the color rising in her cheeks as Erik said, “Something like that.”

Erik continued to eat in silence, while Milo and Nathan spoke of the day's events, and the women joined Erik in silence.

Nathan had a dry sense of humor that made it difficult at first to know if he was being mocking or
merely amusing. This had resulted in Freida and Milo both treating him with some coolness at first.

But his warm nature and clear appreciation of life's little moments had won over even Erik's mother, who could often be seen trying to fight back a smile at some quip of Nathan's. Erik had once asked him how he kept so even a disposition, and the answer had surprised him. “When you lose everything,” Nathan had said, “you've nothing left to lose. You've got two choices then: either kill yourself or start building a new life. When I started this new life, without my family, I decided the only sensible thing in it was to live for the small rewards: a job well done, a beautiful sunrise, the sound of children laughing at play, a good cup of wine. Makes it easy to deal with the harsher side of life.

“Kings and marshals can look back and relive their triumphs, their great victories. We common folk must take what pleasure we can from life's little victories.”

Erik hardly touched his food, and at last bade everyone excuse him as he almost jumped up from the table and hurried out through the common room, Milo's laughter following after. He almost ran through the door of the inn and barely avoided knocking Roo down as the youngster was about to enter the inn.

“Wait a minute!” cried Roo as he fell in beside his larger friend.

“Can't. I have to meet someone.”

Roo grabbed the larger youth by the arm and was almost dragged along a step or two before Erik stopped. “What?” he asked Roo impatiently.

“Did your father send for you?”

Erik had long since stopped being amazed at the town gossip Roo was able to ferret out, but this had him stunned. “Why do you ask that?”

“Because since late yesterday the road has been thick with Kingdom Post riders, sometimes as many as three in a bunch, and a company of the Baron's horse, followed by two companies of foot soldiers, passed by the eastern boundary of the town this morning, heading south, and the Baron's own personal guards showed up an hour ago at the Growers' and Vintners' Hall. That's what I was coming to tell you. And you're wearing your best shirt.”

Not wishing to have Roo along, Erik said, “The Prince of Krondor is dead. That's why . . .” He was about to say that was why his father was coming to the town, on his way to Krondor, but instead said, “all the fuss.”

Roo said, “So those soldiers are heading south to support the garrisons along the Keshian border, in case the Emperor gets ambitious now that Arutha's dead.” Now suddenly an expert in military matters, Roo was left standing by Erik, who had resumed his hurried march.

Seeing he was suddenly alone, Roo yelled, “Hey!” and chased after his friend, catching up with him as Erik left the street of the Pintail and entered the main square of the town.

“Where are you going?”

Erik stopped. “I have to meet someone.”

“Who?”

“It's personal.”

“It's not a girl, or you'd be heading north to the fountain, not east toward the baronial road.” Roo's eyes widened. “You are meeting your father! I was
just joking before.”

Erik said, “I don't want anyone to say anything, especially not to my mother.”

“I'll keep this to myself.”

“Good,” said Erik, turning Roo around with two large and powerful hands on narrow shoulders. “Go find something amusing to do, and not too illegal, and I'll talk to you later tonight. Meet me at the inn.”

Roo frowned, but sauntered off as if he had intended to leave Erik alone anyway. Erik resumed his journey.

He hurried through the businesses clustered around the town square, two- and three-story edifices overhanging the narrow streets, then moved between the modest homes owned by the higher-ranking members of the various crafts and guilds, then the ramshackle houses used by workers, married apprentices, and traders without storefronts.

Leaving the town proper, he hurried along the east road, past small vegetable gardens where pushcart traders grew their wares to sell in the town market, and the large eastern vineyards. Reaching the point where the baronial road leading to Darkmoor intercepted the main east-west road through Ravensburg, he waited.

He mulled over what possible reason he could have been asked to meet his father at this relatively remote location, dismissing the most fanciful of all, that his mother's dream would somehow be realized and his father would acknowledge him.

His musing was interrupted by the sound of an approaching company of horsemen. Soon he could see them crest a distant hill, a company of riders appearing out of the evening's gloom to the northeast.
As they neared, he could see they were the Baron's own, leading the same carriage Erik had seen the last time the Baron had paid the town a visit. He felt a tightening in his chest as they neared, and no small apprehension, for his two half brothers could be seen riding beside the carriage. The first riders hurried past, but Stefan and Manfred reined in.

Stefan shouted, “What! You again?”

He made a threatening gesture as if to draw his sword, but his younger brother shouted, “Stefan! Keep up! Leave him alone!”

The younger brother set heels to his mount and moved to keep up with the vanguard, but his older brother hesitated.

As more soldiers rode past, Stefan shouted, “I warn you now,
brother:
when I ascend to the Baron's office, I'll be nowhere near as tolerant as our father. If I catch a glimpse of you or your mother at any public function, I'll have you arrested so quickly your shadow will have to search to find you.” Without waiting for a reply, he viciously dug his spurs into his horse's flank, causing the high-spirited gelding to leap forward into a fast canter, then a gallop, so he could overtake his younger brother.

Then the main detachment of soldiers approached, followed by the Baron's carriage. As they passed, the riders moved at a steady canter, but the carriage slowed. When it was almost upon Erik, the curtain of the carriage closest to him was pulled back, and he could glimpse a white face peering through the gloom at him. For a moment, father and son locked gazes, and Erik felt a sudden rush of confused feelings. Then all too suddenly the instant passed, and the carriage rolled away, the driver using
the reins to urge his team of four ahead, to overtake the escort.

Erik stood puzzled and angered as the following troop of soldiers approached. He had expected to speak at last to his father, not merely share a momentary glimpse.

As he turned to leave, the last rider reined in and said, “Erik!”

He turned to see Owen Greylock dismounting. Forgetting courtesy, Erik vented his anger. “I thought we were friends, Master Greylock, at least as much as rank permitted. But you had me traipse through the town to this place so that Stefan could insult and threaten me, and my father peek out from his warm carriage at me!”

Greylock said, “Erik, it was your father's request.”

Erik put hands on hips and took a deep breath. “So it was his idea to have Stefan as much as tell me to leave the barony?”

Greylock led his treasured mare to where Erik stood, and put his hand on the younger man's arm. “No, that was Stefan's impromptu performance. Your father wished to see you one last time. He's dying.”

Erik felt unexpected emotions break to the surface, panic and regret, all viewed somehow at a distance, as if the warring emotions were taking place within someone else's breast. “Dying?”

“His chirurgeon warned against this, but with the Prince's death, he felt the need to attempt the journey. Borric has named his youngest brother, Nicholas, to succeed his father, until his own son, Patrick, is of an age to rule the Western Realm. Nicholas is an unknown; everyone expected Erland
to take the post. It could be a fair political bloodbath in Krondor this week.”

Erik knew the names: Borric, the King, and Erland, his younger twin brother. Patrick was the King's eldest son, and by tradition one of the two should have taken the office of Prince of Krondor, but the intrigues of the court meant little to Erik.

“He asked me here so he could catch a glimpse of me as his carriage sped by?”

Greylock squeezed Erik's arm for emphasis. “His
last
glimpse of you.” He removed something from his tunic. “And to give you this.”

Erik beheld a folded parchment being handed him by Greylock. He took it and noticed it was free of any stamp or seal. He unfolded it and began to read. “ ‘My son—' ”

Greylock interrupted. “No one is to know the contents but you, and once you are done, I am to burn this. I will stand away while you read this to yourself.”

He led the horse away, while Erik read:

My son, If I am not yet dead when you read this, I soon shall be. I know you have many questions, and no doubt your mother has answered some. I am sorry to say that I can give you little more than that, and less satisfaction.

When we are young, we feel passions that are but faint memories when we are not very many years older. I think I did love your mother, when I was very young. But if so, then that love, like memories, faded.

If I have any regrets, it is that I could not
know you. You were innocent of your mother's and my indulgences, but I have responsibilities that cannot be set aside because of my regret over a youthful indiscretion. I hope you understand and realize that whatever life we might have imagined as father and son was an impossible illusion. I hope you are a good man, for I am proud of the blood that flows in both our veins, and would hope you honor it as well. I have never publicly denied your mother, because at least I can allow you a name. But beyond this I can do little else.

Your brother Stefan will be set against you in every way. My wife fears any threat to her son's patrimony, and if it is any comfort to you, I have paid a price for remaining silent before your mother's accusations. I have shielded you and your mother more than you might know, but once I am gone, that protection will vanish. I urge you to take your mother from the barony. There is a growing frontier along the Far Coast and in the Sunset Islands, and opportunities for a young man of ability. You could make something of yourself there.

Leave Ravensburg and Darkmoor, and make yourself known to one Sebastian Lender, a solicitor and litigator with an office at Barret's Coffee House, on Regal Street in Krondor. He will have something there for you.

I can do no more. Life is often unfair, and while we might wish for justice, it is usually an illusion. For what it is worth, you have my blessing and my wish for a happy life.

Your Father

Erik held it in his hands a few moments after he had finished, and at last he held it out to Greylock. Owen took the parchment and produced one of the elegant flint and spring-loaded igniters that were all the rage among those who smoked tabac. He struck a series of sparks until one lodged in the parchment, and blew it to a flame. Holding the parchment by the edge, he let the flame grow until it engulfed the document. Just before his fingers would be burned, he let the parchment float away, rising on its own heat as it was consumed.

Erik felt empty. He now realized that whatever he had expected when summoned to this lonely spot, it had been something more than this. His attention returned to Greylock as the Baron's Swordmaster mounted. “Was there anything else?”

Owen said, “Only this: he urged you to count the threat as dire and take the warning with the most gravity.”

“Do you know what that means?”

“Not by his words, Erik, but I'd be a fool not to guess. It might be considered a wise thing if you were on your way to a new home when we return from Krondor. Stefan has a temper that blinds him and a dangerous nature.”

“Owen?” Erik said as Greylock made ready to ride on.

“What?”

“Do you think he ever really loved my mother?”

Greylock looked startled by the question. He paused, then said, “To that I cannot speak. Your father was a man to hide much within. But this I can tell you: whatever you read in that missive take to
heart and count an honest telling, for there is no deceit in the man's nature.”

He rode off, and Erik found himself alone. Then he began to laugh. Everything in his life had stemmed from a deceit. Either Greylock was a poor judge of his lord's nature, or Otto had reformed his ways after deceiving Erik's mother. But to Erik it was of little significance which was the case.

Unsure of his own feelings, he began the trek home. But one thing he knew: Greylock would not take the time to underscore his father's warning if it wasn't real and deadly. For the first time in his life, Erik considered leaving Ravensburg. He laughed again at the irony of no more than a month's having passed since word returned from the guild that it had approved Nathan's registration of Erik as apprentice.