Mageborn The Blacksmith's Son Page 12

  My mother was flushed and her eyes were puffy. She had been crying. Dad looked tired, his eyes focused on a small box on the kitchen table. “Is everything ok?” I asked.

  I expected Dad to answer, given how Mom looked but she spoke instead, “No. It isn’t ok, but your Father has convinced me that it is time to show you this.” Her eyes looked at the box.

  “Does this have something to do with my new abilities?” I was worried, whatever was in that box had upset my mother in a way that I had never seen anything else do. Whatever it was might change everything.

  “Well sort of...” my father started.

  “Hush Royce! She gave this to me. You may have decided for all of us, but it’s my responsibility!” Mom was in tears but she gave me a direct look, “Mordecai, this is from your mother, your real mother. She trusted this to me to give to you when you were older, when you needed to know. She and I both hoped you would be grown before you saw it.” She glared at my father as if he had sprouted horns.

  “What’s in it?” I asked uncertainly.

  “A letter, from her to you. She wrote it here, in this room when you were just a baby. It’s the last thing she did before she died. It’s yours.” Her voice sounded as if the world were ending.

  I reached for the box and my father put his hand over mine, “Son, what you’ll find in that box is your mother’s love for a son she couldn’t raise. You will also find her pain.” He uncovered my hand and looked away. I had never seen my father cry, but his eyes were wet when he told me that.

  I lifted the wooden lid. It was attached by two delicate hinges, my father’s work. Inside the box was lined with velvet and a heavy surcoat lay folded neatly. It was a dark maroon color, with golden trim and a golden hawk spreading its wings in the center. Later I would come to know that its posture was called, ‘rampant’.

  “It’s your mother’s tabard,” said Mom. “She was a daughter of the House of Cameron.”

  I nodded dumbly and pulled it out, letting it unfold. I tried to imagine the woman who had been wearing it.

  “She was tall,” said my father. “Nearly as tall as I am, and strong limbed; she had blond hair and blue eyes. Eyes like yours son, though I guess you get your hair from your father.”

  Underneath it was a folded piece of parchment. I lifted it carefully and unfolded it. Then I began to read:

  My Son,

  It pains me that these will be the only words you ever receive from me. Trust me when I tell you that your father and loved you dearly and told you so often when you were yet a babe. I am entrusting you to Meredith Eldridge as I will not survive more than a few days at most. She is a good woman and I have come to respect her while she has cared for me here. I hope that you grow loving her as I have loved you, as I still love you.

  My name is Elena di’Cameron and I was married to a great man, your father, Tyndal Ardeth’Illeniel. He was the last and best wizard of his line. Given your parentage you may well inherit his powers, but he will not be there to guide you. What knowledge he might have shared is gone now, lost in the fire that consumed Castle Cameron, my childhood home.

  The household was poisoned, and assassins came in the night, the Children of Mal’goroth if I am right. A fanatical cult obsessed with one of the dark gods. Your father and I fought to preserve you that night, but we failed in protecting ourselves. I failed. I was bound by oath and bond to protect your father. I was Anath’Meridum, one of the special guards that have guarded the old lines of mageblood over the generations. That is how I met him, but our love could not be contained in a simple bond, and so we married. You are the result.

  At your father’s request I forsook my vows and left him that night, taking you to safety, or so I hope. There is so much more to say, but I have not the strength to write it all. I told Miri as much as I could in the time I have had. I have also informed the Duke of Lancaster so that he might look over you from afar. Now that you have read this you may wish to seek him out, he will know more than I could possibly write here.

  Above all, do not be angry with Miri. I begged her not to tell you these things until you were older. None of this has been her fault. She and Royce were simply kind enough to care for a stranger, thinking nothing of the risk they put themselves into. They are good people, the salt of the earth, the sort of folk your father always sought to protect. Now they protect you, and for that I am eternally grateful.

  All my love,

  Elena di’Cameron

  I stared into space. My world was coming apart and being reformed in ways that I could not recognize. There was much more in Elena’s letter than I ever hoped for, and much less. I cannot describe the emotions running through me at that time. I don’t even have names for them. “Is that it?” I asked finally.

  “No Mordecai, there’s more.” My mother spoke now, “Your mother had very little time with us but she told us of the night she sought to escape with you,” and she proceeded to tell me. Her words faltered a time or two as there were things in them that were hard to say. It isn’t easy to tell someone of the death of their parents, even if they never knew them.

  As she went on I began to ask questions. We talked until late in the afternoon. At last there was nothing more she could tell me. Meredith Eldridge looked at me with red-rimmed eyes, unsure how I might view her now.

  My feelings were such that I didn’t know how to express them, but a few things hadn’t changed. Meredith and Royce Eldridge were still my parents. “Mom, stop looking at me like that. I still love you. You will always be my mother. I just have an extra one now.” I looked at my father, “and I am still the blacksmith’s son.” There was a lot of hugging after that. My Dad, who is normally very reserved, put his arms around both of us.

  “I need to go.” I said.

  “What will you do,” asked my father.

  “Nothing for now, I will talk to the Duke and see what he can add. I am not going to go mad seeking revenge if that’s what you’re afraid of, I wouldn’t even know where to start.” Yet, I added mentally. I put the letter back in the box, but I kept the tabard. I had plans for that. I went outside and started saddling the horse I had borrowed. My father walked behind me and as I started to mount he put his hand on my shoulder.

  “Wait, I have something for you,” he said, and he led me to the smithy.

  “Your mother had a sword with her when I found her. She told me it was the blade of one of the men who slew your father. She wanted nothing to do with it, her own sword was gone, but I kept it.” He walked to the back and drew out a long iron bound box.

  “I am not a sword smith, but even I could tell the blade was poorly made. I took the metal and melted it down for bar stock.” That surprised me. Normally my father bought his stock iron from the foundries in Albamarl. It was difficult and expensive for a small smithy like ours to do its own smelting. He had taken a lot of trouble to do this. “I did not have the skills, so it took me years, but I thought you might want something like this one day.”

  He opened the box and nestled inside was a sword. It was a simple thing, straight and true, the edges finely honed. The guard was plain but the steel pommel was inset with the Cameron arms. The base of the blade carried the maker’s mark of Royce Eldridge. As far as I knew it was the only weapon he had ever crafted aside from knives and similar tools. He was not fond of violence.

  “I did not make this for your vengeance. I did this to show that even from the ashes of wickedness and tragedy something of beauty can arise. I made this hoping the same for you. Use it for yourself; use it for defending those who cannot protect themselves, as your true father would have. Do not shame either of us.” Then he hugged me, again. Twice in one day, surely he must be getting senile. I didn’t complain though.

  He sheathed it with a scabbard that had been stored alongside it in the box and gave it to me. I buckled it on, feeling awkward for I had never worn a sword, much less learned to use one. Then at last I got mounted and began to ride slowly away. Before I crossed the rise t
hat would block the view of our house from my sight I looked back. He still stood there in the yard, watching me. Royce Eldridge is a blacksmith, and his work had made him strong, but at that moment he seemed old to me.

  I rode on to Lancaster with the twilight casting deep shadows about me.

  Chapter 12

  The Blacksmith’s Son

  Gods and wizards have historically been primarily antithetical, given that they usually embody opposite philosophies, those being ‘submission’ and ‘free-will’ respectively. Wizards rarely have much to do with deities and higher powers, having little interest in sacrificing their own goals. The reverse is not true however; the gods have always had a strong interest in wizards, for their ability to provide something which no channeler can. The gods are restrained by the fact that they reside upon a different plane of existence. Although a channeler may provide them an outlet into our material world he cannot offer them entry. The act of creating a portal through which the planes may be connected requires a great deal of power from both sides of the gulf between worlds. The only known case in which a wizard willfully conspired with a god to effect such a thing led to the destruction historians call the Sundering. The dark god Balinthor was allowed to cross and his actions here nearly destroyed our world. It is not clear how the ancients eventually stopped him nor how he was forcibly banished to his proper plane.

  ~Marcus the Heretic,

  On the Nature of Faith and Magic

  I reached Lancaster with very little light to spare, but as chance would have it Marc and some of the guests came riding in at the same time. They had gone hawking that afternoon after I had left, which suited me just fine. I had enjoyed enough of ‘polite’ society already and the day with my parents had been a welcome respite. I was wrapped in my thoughts, still digesting what I had learned about my ‘other’ parents, so I gave them a casual wave and went to return Lord Thornbear’s horse.

  As I came out of the stables I encountered them again in the yard. Marc had a proud falcon on his arm, and he looked every inch the young nobleman in his hunting leathers. Stephen Airedale, Devon, and Elizabeth Balistair were still with him. I suppose the others had left their horses with the grooms already and gone to wash up.

  “Ho! Mordecai! Come and see my catch!” As always he retained the exuberance of youth. I couldn’t help but find his enthusiasm catching. I walked over and let him show me the contents of his game bag. He had quite a collection of small birds and gazing at the lethal beauty of the falcon he carried I wasn’t surprised. Seeing that, I felt somewhat better about my accidental hawk ‘murder’ the other day. Birds everywhere rejoice! Mordecai the hawk slayer works to even the scales on your behalf.

  “Where did you get off to today Mordecai? I couldn’t find you earlier,” my friend asked.

  “My apologies, I felt a sudden need for fresh air and borrowed a horse from Lord Thornbear,” I replied innocently.

  Devon chose then to make his presence felt, “Off to visit the blacksmith, Master Eldridge?”

  That took me off-guard, “In fact, I did ride that way. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason,” he replied with an audible sneer. “How was your father? Well, I trust?”

  Stunned I had no reply. Artful words would not suffice; it was lie or admit my deception. Marc didn’t suffer from my hesitation, “Where’s this coming from Devon? Or are you just practicing at being a rude jackass as usual?”

  Devon ignored the insult, “I was simply curious. I heard that our Master Eldridge here was actually the blacksmith’s son, I thought I’d see if it were true or not.”

  Marc’s cheeks were flushed red, “I don’t appreciate your treatment of my guests Tremont.” He put emphasis on the name, to remind Devon of the political implications of insulting him I would guess.

  Elizabeth Balistair tried to break the tension, “Devon you shouldn’t pay heed to servant’s gossip, it demeans you. Where did you hear such a thing?”

  “From one of the serving girls, Penelope I believe she said her name was.” He stared directly at me as he said this.

  “Why would she tell you this?” Stephen asked.

  “In my experience a woman on her back will tell you anything you want to know,” Devon said with a leer. The man had no shame.

  I was overcome with rage. The world turned red and all I could see was Devon Tremont bloodied and torn beneath me. I raised my fists and advanced on him, ready to make my vision a reality. I heard a whisper of steel and felt a razor edge at my throat, stopping me cold in my tracks.

  “I see you wear a sword, blacksmith. Why don’t you try that instead?” Devon’s eyes glittered triumphantly. The man had trained with the sword since childhood, whereas I had never held a blade in my life. There could be only one outcome.

  “Planning to add murder to your list of sins Devon? You know he cannot beat you with the sword,” Marc spoke now, his voice calm and sure. “Only a coward provokes a fight he cannot lose. Why don’t you try something more interesting.”

  Devon’s sword never moved but his confidence wavered, “What do you suggest?”

  Marc smiled, “Since you have challenged him, let Mordecai choose the contest.”

  Devon considered for a moment, then answered, “What would you choose boy?” He glared at me. I had the distinct impression that if I chose a sport he could not win he would find an excuse to use the sword anyway.

  “Chess,” I said. I could feel cold sweat dripping down my back, but my face was defiant.

  “You think you can beat me at a gentleman’s game?”

  “I think you are no gentleman,” I answered, but my more sensible side was screaming at me to shut up. Normally you don’t provoke a man holding a sharp instrument to your throat.

  “Very well,” and he sheathed his sword in a graceful motion. “But if there is no blood, honor cannot be satisfied. Why don’t we put a wager on the game?”

  “What do you want to wager?” I said.

  “A hundred gold marks,” he replied with a grin, “and if you cannot pay the debt I will take you as my bond servant.”

  I was in deep now, that was more money than I would see if I worked ten lifetimes, even a nobleman would fear to lose such a sum.

  “No,” came a deep voice, “If he loses I will pay his wager.” James, the Duke of Lancaster stood unnoticed behind us. “And if he wins you will pay, I will make sure of that.”

  Devon found his manners and gave a shallow bow, “It shall be as you say your grace.” He did not dare insult his host at this point.

  After that we repaired to the sun room parlor, there were tables a plenty there. The Duke walked beside me as we went. “I trust you will teach that dog a lesson, Mordecai,” he said in a tone meant just for us. I looked at him and for the first time I considered how much he had done for me. As a boy I had never questioned the fact that Marc’s family wanted me to spend time with their son. Now, knowing what I did about my origins, it made more sense. I resolved to make sure I won.

  What Devon could not have known, was that I was perhaps the best chess player in Lancaster. Marc had planned on it when he suggested I choose the game. The biggest unknown was Devon’s own skills, which I suspected might not be insignificant. “I will do my best your grace,” I answered him. “I would also ask that you grant me a private audience afterward.”

  “No need to be so formal Mordecai, you are much like a son to me yourself, no matter your birth,” he answered courteously.

  “It is about my birth that I would speak to you,” I said, and he looked at me with raised brows. Then he nodded.

  “I expected this day would come,” he replied, “but let us see to the matter at hand first.” Marc had gotten closer and looked at me with questioningly. I shook my head in a way that told him this wasn’t the time.

  Minutes later I was seated at a small table across from Devon Tremont. “Why don’t you set up the pieces, blacksmith?” he sneered, as if to suggest I might not know their proper placement. Without commen
t I obliged him.

  “It appears you are a piece short, or don’t you know where the last piece goes?” he said when I had finished.

  “I thought we might make this more interesting,” I replied. Honestly I’m not sure what had come over me. His condescending attitude had gotten under my skin. “I’ll offer a handicap of one of my rooks.”

  “You insult me. Taking such a handicap puts you at a disadvantage. I would rather beat you with an even board, that none can claim your foolishness gave me the win.” He was no longer sneering, his mind working to decide if I was being clever or a fool.

  “Let's sweeten the wager then, since my handicap might cheapen your victory.” A cold rage was on me now and I wanted to see this petty lord-ling sweat. “Say two hundred marks? And I will be your bond-servant, even if the duke pays my debt.”

  Devon almost flinched at the number, “You seek to bet with money not your own, perhaps the good Duke has his own thoughts on your reckless disregard with his purse.” He glanced at James, “Your grace?” he waited for a reply.

  “My money is as safe as if it were in the king’s own storeroom. I have no objection,” his words were calculated to make Devon unsure. He gave no sign of worry.

  “Very well then, I accept your offer,” Devon replied calmly, but I could see the purple aura around him wavering with uncertainty. Over the past few days my ability to sense things had become more acute. He opened with his queen pawn.

  The next few minutes were quiet as we played, and I became aware that my opponent was quite skilled. The knowledge threatened to undo my concentration but the anger within pushed my doubts aside. He offered a pawn sacrifice, a subtle gambit, but one that would cost him little given I was already down a major piece. If I took it I would find myself pressed hard on the side of the board where I was already weak.