apron, carefully hung it on a peg, then plunged his arms into a nearby bucket of water. Rubbing furiously, he removed most of the black soot and dirt, then splashed water on his face. Grabbing a large clean cloth off a pile of rags used for polishing steel, he dried himself, removing what the water hadn’t through friction.
In the dancing surface of the water barrel he considered his broken reflection: a pair of intense blue eyes under a deep brow, a high forehead from which shoulder-length blond hair swept back. No one today would doubt that he was his father’s son. His nose was more his mother’s, but his jaw and the broad grin that came when he smiled were the mirror image of his father’s. But where his father had been a slender man, Erik was not. A narrow waist was his only heritage from his father. He had his maternal grandfather’s massive shoulders and arms, built up through working at the forge since his tenth birthday. Erik’s hands could bend iron or break walnuts. His legs were also powerful, from supporting plow horses who leaned on the smith while he cut, filed, and shod their hooves, or from helping to lift carts when replacing broken wheels.
Erik ran his hand over his chin, feeling the stubble. Blond as a man could get, he had to shave only every third day or so, for his beard was light. But he knew his mother would insist on him looking his best today. He quickly hurried to his pallet behind the forge, taking care not to disturb the smith, and fetched his razor and mirror. A cold shave was not his idea of pleasure, but far less irritating than his mother would be should she decide to send him back for the razor. He wet his face again and started scraping. When he was done, he looked at himself one more time in the shimmering water.
No woman would ever call Erik handsome: his features were large, almost coarse, from the lantern jaw to the broad forehead; but he possessed an open, honest look that men found reassuring and women would come to admire once they got used to his almost brutish appearance. At fifteen years of age, he was already the size of a man, and his strength was approaching the smith’s; no boy could best him at wrestling, and few tried anymore. Hands that could be clumsy when helping set platters and mugs in the common room were sure and adroit when working in the forge.
Again his mother’s voice cut through the otherwise quiet morning, demanding he come inside now. He rolled down his sleeves as he left the smithy, a small building placed hard against the outside rear wall of the livery. Circling the barn, he came into sight of the kitchen. As he passed the open stable door, he glanced at those horses left in his care. Three travelers were guesting with his master, and their mounts were quietly eating hay. The fourth horse was lying up from an injury and she neighed a greeting at Erik. He couldn’t help but smile; in the weeks he had been tending her she had come to expect his midmorning visits, as he trotted her out to see how she mended.
‘I’ll be back to visit later, girl,’ he called softly to her.
The tone of the horse’s snort revealed her less than enthusiastic response. Despite his age, Erik was one of the best handlers of horses in the region surrounding Darkmoor, and had earned the reputation of being something of a miracle worker. Most owners would have put down the injured mare, but Owen Greylock, the Baron’s Swordmaster, valued her highly. He judged it a prudent risk to put her into Erik’s care, for if he could make her sound enough to breed, a fine foal or two would be worth the trouble. Erik was determined to make her sound enough to ride again.
Erik saw his mother at the rear door of the Inn of the Pintail’s kitchen, her face a mask of resolve. A small woman of steely strength and determination, Freida had been pretty once, though hard work and the world’s cares had taken their toll. While not yet forty years of age, she looked closer to sixty. Her hair was completely grey where it had once been a luxurious brown, and her green eyes were set in a face of lines and angles. ‘Quickly,’ she commanded.
‘He’ll not be here for some time,’ answered Erik, hiding his irritation poorly.
‘There is only a moment,’ she replied, ‘and should we lose it, we shall never again have the chance. He’s ill and may not return again.’
Erik’s brow furrowed at the unspoken implication of that statement, but his mother said nothing more. The Baron rarely visited his smaller holdings anymore, save for occasional ceremonies; at harvest it was the custom for him to visit one of the villages and towns that provided Darkmoor with most of its wealth, the finest grapes and wine in the world, but the Baron visited only a single vintners’ hall, and the one in the town of Ravensburg was among the least important. Besides, Erik was convinced that for the last ten years the Baron had intentionally avoided this particular town, and knew the reason why.
Glancing at his mother, he recalled with a bitter taste in his mouth how, ten years before, she had half dragged, half led Erik through the crowd watching the Baron’s arrival. Erik remembered the looks of astonishment and horror on the faces of the town officials, guildmasters, vintners, and growers when his mother had demanded that the Baron admit to Erik’s paternity. What should have been a joyous celebration of the first taste of the harvest was turned into an embarrassment for all in the town, especially for little Erik. Several men of position had come to Freida several times after that, asking her forbearance in the future, a plea she politely listened to without comment or promise.
‘Stop your woolgathering and come inside,’ Freida demanded. She turned, and he followed her inside the kitchen.
Rosalyn smiled as Erik entered, and he nodded at the serving girl. The same age and companions since babyhood, Erik and the innkeeper’s daughter had been like brother and sister, confidants and best friends. Lately he had become aware that something deeper was blossoming in her, though he was unsure what to do about it. He loved her, but in a brotherly fashion, and he had never thought of her as a possible wife – his mother’s obsession closed off any discussion of such mundane concerns as marriage, trade, or travel. Of all the boys his age in the town, he was the only one not officially employed at a craft. His apprenticeship to Tyndal was informal, and despite his talent for the craft, he had no established standing with the guild offices, either in the Western Capital of Krondor or in the King’s city of Rillanon. Nor would his mother let him discuss having the smith live up to his oft-repeated promise of forwarding a formal petition to the guild to admit Erik as his apprentice. This should have been the end of Erik’s first year as an apprentice or working at a trade. Even though he knew his way around a forge better than apprentices two or three years older, he would start two years behind others, if his mother let him apprentice the next spring.
His mother, whose head barely reached his chin, said, ‘Let me look at you.’ She reached up and took his chin in her hand, as if he were still a child, not nearly a man, and turned his head one way, then another. With a dissatisfied clucking sound, she said, ‘You’re still stained with soot.’
‘Mother, I’m a blacksmith!’ he protested.
‘Clean yourself in the sink!’ she commanded.
Erik knew better than to say anything. His mother was a creature of iron will and unbending certainty. Early he had learned never to argue with her; even when he was wrongly accused of some transgression, he would simply and quietly take whatever discipline was meted out, for to protest would only increase the punishment. Erik stripped off his shirt and laid it over the back of a chair next to the table used to clean and prepare meats. He saw Rosalyn’s amusement at his being bullied by his small mother, and he feigned a scowl at her. Her smile only broadened as she turned away, picking up a large basket of freshly washed vegetables to carry them into the common room. Turning at the door, she bumped it open and as she backed through stuck her tongue out at him.
Erik smiled as he plunged his arms into the water she had just abandoned after cleaning the vegetables. Rosalyn could make him smile as could no other person. He might not fully understand the powerful stirrings and confusing urges that woke him late at night as he dreamed about one or another young woman in the village – he understood the specifics of mating, as any child raised around animals did, but the emotional confusion was new to him. At least Rosalyn didn’t confuse him the way some of the older girls did, and of one thing he was certain: she was his best friend in the world. As he splashed water on his face again, he heard his mother say, ‘Use the soap.’
He sighed and picked up the foul-smelling block