HONOR BOUND (The Spare Heir) (20 page)

Without knowing exactly why, Jorem looked directly at the old woman and closed his eyes.  The blinding white light that appeared startled him so much that he jerked his head back and opened his eyes.  Something about the feel of that light was familiar.  The closer the old woman came the more confident he became of that feeling.  When the old woman finely arrived at his table, Jorem stood and gave her a deep, formal bow.

“Lady of light,” Jorem said.  “How may I serve thee?”

It took a great deal of effort to keep a straight face.  The effort, though difficult, was rewarded with an almost imperceptible look of surprise that flashed across the woman’s face.  If he hadn’t been watching for her surprise, he would never have seen it.  Her expression changed in an instant, from surprise to an icy glare.  When she spoke, it wasn’t with her normal silken voice, but with a grating cackle that well matched her hag-like appearance.

“Impertinent boy!”  She snarled, though a corner of her mouth twitched up a bit.  “Fetch me something to eat and keep your insults to yourself.”

Jorem smiled as he said, “Ever at thy command.”

As quickly as he could, Jorem went to the kitchen and gathered up a plate of mixed meats, cheeses and bread.  He shuddered at the thought of Lady Zensa drinking ale and poured a mug full of cider instead.  On his way past the fire, Linda handed him a steaming bowl of stew.  She looked at him questioningly, so he simply nodded and said, “A friend of a friend,” and continued on his way.

Setting the meal before what appeared to be a haggard old woman, Jorem sat down in a chair on the opposite side of the table.  He sat patiently as she daintily picked at the meal.  She had only eaten a small portion of the food on the plate when she pushed it aside and dabbed her mouth with a napkin.  Picking up the mug, she took a small sip.  With a start, she looked at the mug, took another sip and closed her eyes.  When she opened her eyes again, she looked at Jorem and smiled.

“Sweet cider,” she stated.  “Its taste brings back so many happy memories from so long ago.”

She sighed and sat back in her chair.  Lost in thought, she sat quietly for a while.  She looked so peaceful that Jorem couldn’t bring himself to disturb her.  After a short time, she shook her head and looked across the table and a smile played across her face.  Even disguised as an old woman, Jorem could see her beauty and poise.  The smile didn’t last long.  Her face took on a stern expression and her eyes flashed as she glared at him.

“You, young man,” she growled, “have some explaining to do.  How is it that when I arrive here, the only way that I can recognize you is by the long head of hair you and your brothers always wear?  And yet you, with no trouble at all, see right through one of the best disguises I have ever conjured up?”

Jorem looked around to see if anyone was listening in on the conversation.

“Don’t worry, no one can hear us,” Zensa said without dimming her glare.  “I’ve already taken care of that.  Now, tell me how you knew.”

Jorem shrugged his shoulders and explained.  “You know that I can feel magic.  As soon as you started across the room I knew there was a spell working.  Then, when I closed my eyes, I could see you.”

Zensa looked at Jorem as if she thought he was losing his mind.

“You remember in Pentrothe’s lab,” he continued, “when I said that I saw a light?”

A slow nod was all the reaction that Zensa gave.

“It was you.  When I close my eyes I can see you, at least when you’re using magic I can.”

Jorem closed his eyes to demonstrate and flinched so hard he nearly fell out of his chair.  He looked away from her and blinked his eyes a few times to clear them.

“Well, not you so much as something about you.  When I close my eyes you become a bright, white light.  Apparently the closer you are the brighter you get.  So when I saw you, the light part, it just felt like you. Those blue eyes had me confused for a bit though.”

Zensa’s glare dimmed a little.  She sat staring at him, her finger lightly tapping the mug she still held in her hands.

“Have you told anyone else you can do that—see magic, I mean?” she asked.

“No.” Jorem said with a laugh.  “Aside from you and Pentrothe, no one even knows I have a clue about magic.  I may not be able to do magic, but I can feel it and I know it when I see it.  As for the people here, most of them have forgotten the King is my father and they’d probably lock me up as a nut if I started talking about seeing magic.”

“Good,” Zensa said, satisfied with his answer.  “It’s definitely something I would like to study, but this is neither the time nor the place.  As for you, my young friend, what has caused such a change in you?”

Jorem’s brows furrowed with confusion at her question.  “I…,” he stammered.  “I hadn’t noticed any change.”

Zensa’s mouth quirked into a smile.  “No, I suppose you wouldn’t.  You never did spend much time in front of a mirror.”  She shook her head in amusement.  “So, what have you been doing for the past three cycles?”

“Three cycles?”  Jorem blurted.  “But it’s still the dead of winter.”

“Winters up here last six, sometimes eight cycles, not the three you’re used to.”

Jorem was a little dazed at the amount of time that had passed.  “I guess I lost track of time.”

Zensa nodded in understanding.  “That’s not unusual in areas like this, otherwise most people would go stir crazy.  What is it that has kept you so occupied that time goes so quickly?”

Jorem shrugged.  “I spend almost all of my time working with the smith, pumping the bellows, hammering out metal, hauling coal and cleaning up.”

Pursing her lips, Zensa studied him for a moment.  “I suppose that kind of work would explain it.  I can tell Pentrothe that you are doing well, then?”

“I’m fine,” Jorem said.  “The smith tells me his son Ben, the one that got hurt, is healing slowly but healing all the same.  He said that with a little luck, his son will be on his feet by late spring.”

“His injuries were truly that bad?” Zensa asked.

“Yes,” Jorem said, unable to keep the disgust from his voice.  “They hurt him badly.  If there hadn’t been people there to help him, I doubt he would have lived.”

“Hmmm…” Shaking her head, “I’ll check on him before I leave.  I can’t do any actual healing, but I can make sure there are no hidden injuries.  I actually came here for another reason, but when Pen heard I would be passing through, he insisted I check on you. Years ago, there was a man living near here who had an odd talent for making a unique magical object.”

“You mean power stones?” Jorem ask.

Zensa was silent for an uneasy moment, then asked, “What do you know of the stones?”

Her worried tone was reason enough for Jorem to be concerned.  He explained his chance meeting with the old woman.  He was very careful not to leave out any detail of his time with Sashia, including her ability to tell that he had been around magic.  At his mentioning of being given a green power stone he thought Zensa was going to pounce on him.

“Do you still have the stone?” she asked tensely.

“Yes,” Jorem nodded. “It’s locked up in an old trunk in my room.  I had intended to give it to Jennifer, the healer trainee back home.”

Zensa looked down at the table thoughtfully then nodded her head.  “If anyone were to have a power stone, a healer would be the best choice.  I’ll need to speak to this Sashia woman.  Picture her and her house in your mind, if you would, Jorem.”

“Does she have something to do with the person you are looking for?” Jorem asked.

She looked at him quizzically for a moment before answering.  “Echalain?  No, not directly, anyway.  She might know something that might help in my search, though.  Now, concentrate.”

Jorem did as she asked and thought of the large dilapidated mansion and the kind old woman who lived there.  Zensa reached across the table and lightly touched his forehead with her fingertips.  Other than the feathery touch of her fingers, Jorem felt nothing more than a slight tingling on the back of his neck.

“That should get me there without any further difficulties.”  Zensa sat back in her chair as she spoke.  “I should be on my way.  It has been good to see you again.”

“It’s been good seeing you, too.”  Jorem tilted his head to one side as he spoke and looked Zensa over.  “Even though you don’t look like you.”

The usual musical trill of Zensa’s laugh came out more like a cackle.  “I find that few notice the presence of an old beggar woman.  It’s almost as good as being invisible.”

“Done up like that, you could pass for Pentrothe’s sister,” Jorem commented.

Zensa raised an eyebrow at Jorem.  “Perhaps it’s not so good of a disguise after all.”

Her statement confused Jorem for a moment until he realized what he had said.  The idea seemed impossible, crazy even.  Pentrothe was, well, ancient.

“But he’s so old,” Jorem’s words came tumbling out, “and you’re so…”

“Young?” Zensa interrupted him.

That wasn’t exactly what he was going to say, but Jorem responded with a weak nod of his head.

“I’m not as young as I look.  Dragon magic has an unusual effect on humans.  Pen is actually my younger brother.  We chose different paths.  I’m not sure which of us chose better, he or I.”  Zensa looked at Jorem and smiled.  Even through her disguise he could feel the warmth of that smile.  “It would probably be best if you didn’t share that bit of information with anyone else.”

“Of course,” Jorem replied.  “Not that anyone would believe me anyway.”

Zensa stood to leave then turned back.  “I almost forgot. Your father sent this.”

She set a coin on the table and slid it across to him.  Jorem looked down and saw that it was a gold crown.  He had sent a few letters to his Father, but there had been no response.  It was doubtful the King even remembered he was here.

With doubt on his face and in his voice, Jorem looked up at the ragged old women he knew to be Lady Dragon Mage Zensa and asked, “Father sent this?”

The wrinkled, weatherworn face smiled back at him, revealing a number of missing teeth.  “He may have been coerced just a little.  And this,” she said as she tossed an object to him, “is to keep Pentrothe from pestering me night and day.  If you should ever need me, and I stress the word ‘need,’ break it in half and I shall find you.”

The object Jorem caught was a thin rod of glass shaped to look like a miniature sword.  “Thank you, Lady Zensa,” Jorem said, closing his hand around the trinket.  “Although I don’t know what trouble I could get into around here.”

The old woman cackled as she turned to leave.  “My thanks for the meal, young friend.  Be assured, our paths will cross again.”

Jorem smiled at the thought of Zensa coercing the King.  What a sight that must have been!  It would be like one of the great wild cats toying with a mouse.  That Zensa would take the time to do such a thing for him left a warm feeling in his chest.  That she was older than Pentrothe, now that would take some getting used to.

Chapter XXI

Time passed quickly for Jorem.  Before he knew it, spring had come to the mountains.  Of course, the coming of spring meant a great deal more work for the smith.  Many of the farmers had put off repairs until spring and horses needed to be shod, not to mention the swords they were making for the Duke. The Duke had been sufficiently pleased with the samples Franks had made to order several more.

A sword, a simple sword was one more thing Jorem had taken for granted.  How hard could it be to pound out a straight piece of metal, sharpen the edges and wrap some leather around one end?  How wrong he had been.  For the past several cycles, he had learned just how wrong.

It took Franks a full sevenday to get the raw metal the way he wanted it.  So much of this ore and so much of that ore were added to a crucible.  A pinch of this and a handful of that were sprinkled in as well.  Pumping the bellows until the coal burning within the forge was white hot, the searing heat that boiled out of the crucible containing the molten metal scorched anything that came close.

When they poured the molten metal out of the crucible and into the mold, flames danced along the surface of the liquid and an acrid smoke tinged the air.  As the casting was pried from the mold, Jorem thought the sword nearly done.  It had the general shape of a sword.  A bit of sharpening on a stone was all it needed.  Jorem said as much to the smith and received a derisive laugh for his words.

“We are making a real sword, not a child’s toy.”  The smith held the rough looking sword up.  “The real work to make this into a proper sword has yet to begin.  This next part you will learn to do.  It is just heating and hammering, heating and hammering, over and over again.  Inside of the metal there is much of the ore that we do not want.  Force it out we must, and the only way to do it is with a hammer and the strength of our arms.  I will show you how it is done and then watch you for the first few.”

And so it was, heat and hammer, heat and hammer.  Jorem learned to use the rebound of the hammer to help lift it for the next strike.  The smith stood opposite of him with a stick that he used for a pointer in his hand.  After each blow of the hammer the smith would point to the next spot on the blade to be struck.  Jorem even began to be able to tell the difference between a good hammer strike and a bad one by the sound of it.  While the sword was reheating for the next round of hammering, Jorem swept the grit that had been forced out of the blade off of the anvil and bench top.

Of the first casting, which yielded three swords, the smith discarded them all.  “Too soft,” he’d said.  When Jorem asked him how he could tell, Franks took one of the rough shaped swords, slid it between two boards of one of the bench tops and bent it in half.  “We’ll have to melt them back down to fix them.  These would do for show but never for battle.”

By the time the snow melted from the ground they had nearly two-dozen swords finished save for the hilts.  While Jorem beat the swords to remove the grit he also tried to get the swords to the thickness and taper that Franks wanted.  The smith worked at the finishing steps.  With great patience the smith would hone the blades until they were smooth and straight.  Then he heated the full length of the sword until it glowed brightly and then plunged it into a barrel of water.  With a sharp hiss, clouds of steam would billow from the barrel.  Franks would then heat the sword again, but not quite so hot, and lightly tap the length of the blade with a small, flat-faced hammer.