Sorcerer's Son (5 page)

Cray kicked his mount to a trot. He was ashamed of himself. He had assumed that seeing a human being in the flesh would be no different from seeing him in a web. He had never thought to practice greeting as he had practiced fighting. Now he whispered as he rode: “Good morning, friend. How far is the town, good sir? Fare you well on this fine day, good wife.” He hoped his heart would ease its clamor before his next encounter on the road.

The forest gave way to barley fields. Cray thought he saw a man standing among the grain, but on closer inspection the figure turned put to be a scarecrow. The afternoon was waning by the time he saw another human being—three of them at once, walking single file at the side of the track, bent-backed under huge bundles of wood. By that time he did not need to ask how far the town might be; he could see its walls in the distance, on high ground.

“Good morrow,” he said as he trotted past them. They made some sort of reply, but he scarcely heard it, could not have said whether it was greeting or curse. He only knew that he had spoken to them, and with those two small words he felt some barrier dissolve within himself. He sat straighter on his horse after that, though he was tired from the day’s riding, and he whistled a cheerful series of bird calls. As the road approached the town, other paths converged on it, and foot traffic from these as well as that he had caught up with enveloped him. He smiled and nodded at one and all, guiding his horse carefully through them, and when someone nodded a tentative return, Cray made a verbal greeting. Soon he was speaking to everyone he passed, and if only a few answered with more than a tilt of the head he was content.

The town gates were open; his horse was so tall that Cray had to bend at the waist to pass beneath their arch. Immediately within was the marketplace. It was quiet so late in the day, only a few woodcutters hawking their wares against the cool of the coming night Cray dismounted near one of them.

“Good even, sir,” he said. “Can you tell me where I might buy a sword?”

The woodcutter looked Cray up and down. “A bit young for a sword, aren’t you?”

“Perhaps now,” said Cray, “but the years will mend that. Can you direct me?”

The man shrugged, “The smith might know. Up that street.” He gestured with a thumb. “You’ll see the forge.” He eyed Gallant ‘Fine looking horse you have there. Very fine—for such a young lad.“

Cray smiled. “He has a vile temper, though. Watch you stay clear—he might kick.”

The man stepped back, heels nudging the bundle of faggots behind nun. “If he kicks me, I’ll have your hide, lad.”

“If he kicks you, you won’t have anything, good sir.” He waved a farewell and walked up the indicated street, Gallant ambling docilely after.

He found the smithy without any trouble. The smith, finished with his work for the day, was sitting in a large chair in front of the forge, watching the fire burn low.

“May I tie my horse to your rail and speak a moment with you, sir?” asked Cray.

The smith nodded. He was a short man but very broad of shoulder, with muscles hardened by metal-work. He looked at Cray only briefly, reserving the majority of his attention for Gallant. “That’s a well-made animal,” he said.

“I have been told so, sir, but I am no judge of horseflesh.”

“He is well-shod, too, so what might you need of me?”

“I am looking for a sword, sir. And a shield and helm and chain mail as well, but the sword comes first.”

The smith shook his head. “I cannot help you, boy. Ask me to shoe your horse or mend your wagon, and I will do it easily. But I am no sword-maker.”

“Where might I find one, then?”

“Not in this town.” He frowned, fingering his chin. “The lord buys his weapons from a merchant of the south, and good weapons they are, so I hear. You might go up to the Great House and ask if they would sell you one.”

“Thank you, sir.” Cray bowed. “Will you direct me to the Great House?”

The smith waved one hand. “Follow this street to the wall, then take the east gate road. You will come to it shortly.”

“Good day to you.”

Beyond the wall, Cray saw the Great House immediately—a stone fortress that had been hidden from his sight previously by the bulk of the town itself. A wide, tree-lined road ran between cultivated fields from town to castle, and upon that rutted surface, a few late stragglers trudged townward. Cray guided Gallant past them, then allowed the impatient beast to trot, as if it were trying to overtake the long shadow that stretched like a herald before it. Summer twilight was settling slowly over the land as they drew up before the castle entry.

Two guards in studded leather jerkins challenged Cray. “You are not of this town,” said one of them.

“Indeed, I am a stranger,” he replied. “I seek a sword and armor and was told that I might be able to purchase them here.”

The guard who had spoken studied him a moment, and then studied Gallant for another. He turned to his mate. “Who would we ask about such a thing?”

The other shrugged. “The captain might know.” He, too, eyed Cray and the horse.

“Will you direct me to the captain, then?” asked Cray.

“I’ll call him,” said the first guard, and he stepped back through the gate and beckoned to someone inside the courtyard. In a few moments a very stocky man joined the guards; he wore a green leather badge on one shoulder to denote his rank.

“For whom do you wish to buy this sword and armor?” he asked.

“For myself,” said Cray.

“Are you a knight, that you need such things?”

“I will be a knight, sir, like my father.”

“Why does your father not supply you with a sword and armor, if he is a knight? Why does he let a lad so young rove the world alone in search of a knight’s trappings?”

Cray had long since devised his explanation. “My. father was killed far from home many years ago. His own armor was never recovered.”

“You must have uncles, cousins to help you.”

“I have no one but my mother, sir.”

The captain squinted at Gallant. “There’s a fine horse, I think. Your mother must be rich to buy him for you. Who is she?”

“Delivev Ormoru of Castle Spinweb.”

The stocky man’s florid complexion washed white. When he spoke next, his voice was very soft, your mother is the sorceress called the Weaver?“

“She is.”

He bowed low. “If you will dismount, young sir you may enter the Great House. The supper is being served even now in the main hall, and I am sure the lord will be pleased to seat you there. We will see to your horse.”

Cray found himself surprised by the sudden respect engendered by his mother’s name, but then he chided himself for that surprise. This town and this fortress were his mother’s nearest neighbors, the ordinary mortals most likely to know of her. And obviously they feared her. He wondered what his sweet and gentle mother might have done that could make them fear her.

He slid from the saddle and banded Gallant’s reins to the captain. “You are very kind, sir,” he said.

“Please come this way,” said the captain. He led Cray and the horse into the courtyard, where he passed the horse to the first subordinate he encountered, cautioning him to care well for the animal. Cray he conducted to the keep.

Inside the stone tower, a short corridor gave into a large, open room filled with people eating the evening meal. Tall slit windows admitted the last rays of the sun, and torches at short intervals along the walls added their flickering yellow to the scene. Upon a dais at the far end of the room, a small knot of talkers waved fowl joints to emphasize their words. One of the men was clothed in deep blue, with a gold necklet at his throat; the captain approached him, bowed low, and whispered in his ear. The man’s bushy eyebrows rose as he listened, and the eyes that looked out at Cray from beneath those brows held both awe and disbelief. His hands tightened upon the arms of his chair, as if he felt he might be dragged from the seat at any moment.

“You say

you are the son of the Weaver of Spinweb,” he said.

Cray bowed. “I am that, my lord. My name is Cray.”

“You have come to buy

arms and armor—is that it?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“There is no other reason? Your mother is not

displeased with us, I hope?”

“Not to my knowledge, my lord.”

He spoke very quickly. “I know that a few of my people have been hunting in the forest that separates her land from mine. They have not trespassed, have they? I will punish any that do, I swear it. Or she may punish them herself, as she wishes, I will not say her nay.”

“I know of no trespassers, my lord.”

The man in blue relaxed visibly. “I wish to stay on good terms with her. You can understand that, I’m sure.”

“Of course, my lord.”

“Now

arms.” He frowned. “Why would the child of a sorceress desire such things?”

“I intend to be a knight, as my father was.”

“Your father was not a sorcerer?”

“No, my lord.”

“Who was he, then?”

“His name was Mellor, and his device was three red lances interlocked on a white field.”

The man in blue shook his head. “I do not recognize either.”

“I would not expect it, my lord. My mother told me he was sworn to the Lord of the East March, and that is very far away for any of its knights to be known in these lands.”

“Far indeed.” His hands left the arms of his chair and came together, the palm of one slowly stroking the knuckles of the other. “Arms,” he murmured.

“I can pay for them, my lord.”

“Oh, I would sell them to the son of the Weaver for a fair price. But not to just anyone who came asking for them. Not, I think, to a boy who offered payment with stolen silver, for example.” He leaned forward. “After all, how can I be sure you are who you say you are?”

Cray smiled. “I can prove it, my lord, if I must.”

The man straightened, his shoulders striking the back of his chair with an audible thump. “How would you prove it, if I asked for proof?”

“You wear long sleeves, my lord. I could roll them to your elbows.”

“Well, and so could I.”

“But I would not touch them while doing so.”

The lord set his palms flat on his thighs. “You may do so,” he said.

Cray gestured with one outstretched hand, and the lord’s left sleeve began to roll itself up his arm. All around him, people ceased their conversations and turned to look, and many of them stepped back, clutching their own sleeves, as if afraid they, too, might begin to move of their own volition.

“Enough!” shouted the lord of the fortress, and he stood up suddenly, brushing his sleeve down with the opposite hand as he might brush at an insect crawling on his skin.

“I can do more than that,” said Cray, “but I would not wish to damage your property, my lord.”

“No more is necessary, my curiosity is satisfied.” He called over his shoulder, “Steward!”

The steward, who was among those who had reeled back from the magic of the sleeve, skittered to his liege’s side. He was a small, slight man with a spade beard, and he held his hands curled to his chest as if protecting some treasure that lay within. “My lord?”

“Serve this young man supper, and then give him whatever arms and armor he requires. As a personal gift from me.”

Cray bowed. “My lord, I have silver enough to pay.”

The lord bowed in return. “As you wish. Let the price be a fair one, steward. And Master Cray—please convey my best wishes to your mother.”

“I will, my lord.”

“This way, sir,” said the steward.

Cray bolted a quick supper, then followed the steward to the armory, which was a long narrow room with hundreds of steel pegs driven into its stone walls and all the trappings of combat hung upon those pegs. With the steward’s help, Cray selected a blank shield, a simple bowl-shaped helm with movable visor, a shirt and hood and leg harnesses of chain, and a sword in a plain scabbard. All were in good condition, though all had seen use. The sword was nicked in two places; the steward offered to have the nicks ground out, but Cray refused.

“It will only get nicked again when I use it,” he said. He tested the balance of the blade, swinging at an imaginary foe. His wooden sword had not been light, but steel was heavier, and he knew that the muscles in his arms were not yet strong enough to wield it for long. Yet its haft fit his grip well, for though his body was not full grown, his hands were already man-sized.

“It is large for you,” said the steward.

“Not for the man I will be.” He slid the blade into its scabbard and set the two atop the blank shield. “Steward, how long have you been with this house?”

“All my life, young sir. And my father before me.”

Cray folded the chain mail into a manageable bundle, and the links chinked softly under his bands. “Thirteen years ago, my father may have stopped at this fortress. He was perhaps twenty years in age, and the device on his shield was three red lances interlocked upon a white field. Do you remember him?“

“You spoke of him to my lord, did you not? My lord did not recall him.”

“Your lord is a man whose attention must be consumed by greater things. A steward, though, might notice one insignificant traveler.”

The steward plucked thoughtfully at his beard. “We have few visitors. But, no.” He shook his head. “I have no memory of such a one. Are you certain he came this way?”

Cray sighed. “No.”

“Perhaps he passed us, not wishing to stop with strangers.”

“Perhaps.“

“If you wish, I will ask a few others who were here at that time. There may be someone who remembers him.”

Cray smiled. “That would be kind of you.”

The steward signaled one of the armory guards to come over and pick up Cray’s bundle of knightly accoutrements. “We will pack these in your saddlebags, if there is nothing more you desire from this room.”

“These are sufficient,” said Cray.

“I have ordered a pallet laid for you in the main hall, that you may have a good sleep before you leave us.”

“I thank you, steward. Now all we are left with is the matter of price.”

“Ah

price.” He waved the guard away, with instructions to ask the captain of the guard which animal was Cray’s. “My lord said a fair price, but in truth I don’t know what a fair price would be for these things. They are not new. And their loss is not significant to us, as you can easily see. I might say