HONOR BOUND (The Spare Heir)

by Southwick, Michael G.

  “You mean like what happened to the smith’s son, Ben.” Cassy said. “I bet Ben started it. Everybody knows he’s got more muscle than brains.”

  “No, it wasn’t Ben’s fault.” The incident flashed through Jorem’s mind as fresh as the night it had happened. He could still hear the sound of bones breaking and the grunts of pain. “Ben was protecting his sister. What was done to him is inexcusable. The king promised that the princes would be punished for what they did. I think he meant it.”

  “It’s really true then? What everyone has been saying?” Cassy sounded as though a trusted friend had betrayed her. “But they’re princes. Princes are supposed to be good.”

  “They’re just people, Cassy, and people make mistakes,” Jorem said. “At least the King left one of his sons to help with the blacksmith’s work.”

  “Ya, the spare.” The disdain almost dripped from Cassy’s words. “You know what everyone says about him. The smith will be lucky if his shop isn’t burned to the ground.”

  Not reacting to the girl’s words was the hardest thing Jorem had ever done. Cassy’s words were likely just some she had heard others speaking; that she parroted them made it all the worse. He felt as if he had been stabbed in the chest. It was hard to breath. He wanted to scream, to lash out, but he knew he couldn’t. This was so unfair. Here he was, doing the right thing, and what did he get for it?

  Jorem’s mind flashed back to a scene from years ago. A young boy burying his tear stained face into the black, silken-robed lap of a dark haired woman with emerald green eyes. The hurt that had caused the tears was long forgotten, not so the words that came from the calm and caring voice. “If the right thing to do was always the easy thing to do, who then would do wrong?” She had stroked his hair and let him cry. When he had cried himself out she had stood him up, grasped his chin and locked eyes with him. “Be the one that does what is needed, not the one to cause the need!”

  Luckily the baker chose that moment to bustle back into the room. The man’s entrance saved Jorem from having to respond to Cassy’s words. In his hands the baker carried a package wrapped in paper. Cassy stepped to the side to allow her father to get up to the counter. The big man had a wide grin on his face as he placed the package on the counter. The package was nearly a half an arm length long and a full hand wide.

  “Here you are young man,” the baker said as he pushed the package across the counter toward Jorem. “That should be enough to satisfy even a starving lad such as yourself.”

  “Thank you very much,” Jorem said. He busied himself untying his money pouch to give himself time to recover from Cassy’s comments. “How much do I owe you?”

  “Nay, not a thing,” the baker replied, waving off the coins Jorem offered. “I’d not charge a stranger for a bite to eat on Firstday.”

  “But…” Jorem started to protest.

  “No Buts,” the baker interrupted. “If you must make payment, do good unto another. As the Book of One says, ‘Each is to do good unto others that all might be served.’ Now off with you, I’ve many meals yet to prepare.”

  Jorem unwrapped the sandwich as he strolled along the street. The bread was light and fluffy, almost like a pastry. Inside, the sandwich was filled with spiced meats and cheese all coated with a tangy cream sauce. The sandwich was so big Jorem was sure he would be carrying a portion of it back to the inn. It was a bit of a surprise when he saw that he was popping the last bite into his mouth. It had tasted so good he had eaten the entire thing without realizing it.

  Chapter XIX

  With the thick layer of clouds and the snow drifting down, it was difficult to tell what hour it was. The western sky seemed a little brighter than the east so Jorem decided it must be well after midday. Unlike his home, the streets here ran at odd angles. Several times Jorem had to backtrack because the street ended without warning. The people who lived here likely new this and had no problem navigating their way. For Jorem it was more than a little confusing.

  Between the snowstorm and it being Firstday, very few people where out on the streets. Jorem couldn’t help but notice an old woman struggling to pull a cart down the snow-covered street. She was quite short and heavily wrapped in several layers of cloaks. A few tendrils of long, gray hair had escaped from the scarf that covered the woman’s head. The weight of the pile of wood on the cart forced the wheels to dig into the snow, making the task of pulling it all the more difficult.

  The thought of not helping didn’t even enter Jorem’s mind. He just walked up beside the woman, grasped the handle of the cart and started pulling. The woman started when Jorem appeared at her side. When Jorem smiled at her and continued to pull the cart she nodded her thanks and they struggled on together. Occasionally the old woman would peer at Jorem as if she thought she should recognize him. Wrapped up as she was it was impossible to tell what she looked like, but from the few small patches of her face that could be seen it was obvious she was quite old.

  They pulled the cart down several streets and through a number of narrow alleys before reaching their destination. Jorem had expected to find a small, dilapidated house. Instead they stopped at an elaborately decorated mansion nearly as large as the inn. The building was set back from the street with a park like expanse in front of it. Snow-covered statues and fountains stood in the blanket of snow like ghosts frozen in time. The dark windows of the two-story edifice stared down at them as they approached. Jorem could see by the dilapidated look of the place that no one had been taking care of it. The paint was peeling from the walls and the crenellations along the roof had begun to crumble.

  They finally pulled the cart to a stop next to a covered porch at the rear of the building. After a moment to catch his breath, Jorem started unloading the wood from the cart and stacking it against a wall on the porch. The wood was mostly small stuff, broken branches and twigs. There were a few larger pieces, but nothing larger around than Jorem’s arm. For all the struggling they had gone through to get the wagonload of wood here, the pile of wood they ended up with seemed very small.

  The woman bobbed her head at Jorem and invited him into her house out of the cold. By the look of things, Jorem doubted whether it would be any warmer inside the house than it was outside. Not wanting to appear rude, Jorem accepted the offer and picked up an armload of wood to carry in with him. Waving him in, the old woman proceeded through a door that could have used a new coat of paint years ago.

  Jorem followed the woman down a wide hallway, passing several doors on both sides. A few of the doors stood ajar and Jorem could see into them. Mostly he saw sheet-covered furniture and dust-covered floors. It seemed very few people lived here. In fact, Jorem realized, it was very likely the old woman was the only person currently residing here. It seemed odd that someone would live in such a large building all alone.

  The hallway opened up into what must have been the main gathering area of the building. The dim light shining through the windows gave sufficient light to see by, but it added no cheer to the room. A number of couches and chairs were set about the room, though only a few of them were not covered with sheets. The chairs that were not covered were at one end of the room near a large fireplace. A worn rug that looked like it once boasted an intricate design covered the floor in front of the hearth. Several paintings dotted the walls depicting a variety of landscapes from mountains to oceans.

  Over the fireplace mantle hung a large painting of a very striking man. Dark brown hair framed a strong, masculine face. The intense blue eyes of the man suggested a self-assurance that Jorem had seen in few other than warriors. Whoever had created the painting had done an amazing job of it. It was possible the painter had exaggerated the features of the man, but somehow Jorem didn’t think that was the case. To own a house such as this would have required either a great deal of money or a fair amount of power.

  Jorem set the wood down in a rack next to the hearth. Without thinking he laid the making of a fire in the fireplace so it could be lit with ease. Pushing back the
hood of his cloak, Jorem turned to find the old woman studying him intently. She had removed her cloak and scarf, revealing that she was indeed very old. Fine wrinkles covered her pale face and hands. Long, gray hair that must have once been luxurious curled down over her shoulders. Her clothing, though worn, was made of fine fabric that had lost little of its richness. All of these things Jorem noted in an instant, but what drew his attention were the intense blue eyes that regarded him.

  “Are you a mage?” the woman asked in a harsh whisper. “You smell of magic. Why have you come to me?”

  She seemed nervous yet excited at the same time. That she sensed magic on him didn’t surprise him as much as the fact that she could sense magic at all. Pentrothe had told him how unusual it was for him to be able to sense magic being used without having the use of that magic. It was likely this woman was herself a mage if she could tell he had been around magic. But why would a mage with any amount of power be living in a rundown mansion where she had to go out to gather her own firewood? Something was odd here, enough so that Jorem was concerned for his own safety.

  “I’m no mage.” Jorem replied cautiously. “I was recently healed of an injury and I have spent some time around one who dabbles in magic.”

  The woman approached Jorem and sniffed the air around him. “Healing magic, you say?” She sniffed the air again. “Yes, that would be part of it. You should tell your friend to be careful though. He is playing with a very old and powerful magic.”

  “You can smell all of that?” Jorem asked.

  The woman drew herself up and straightened her shoulders. Brushing back her hair she took on an almost regal pose. “I am Sashia, daughter of Fresdan, maker of the power stones.”

  “What is a power stone?” Jorem asked.

  The question and the blank look on his face caused Sashia to slump down into a chair. A moment before she had looked vibrant and proud. Now she looked old and tired. She reached over to a table next to her chair and lit a candle. The shadows the light created seemed to make the walls draw closer and the room seem more desolate.

  “Does no one remember?” she asked in a discouraged voice. “Mages of great power once came here. They traveled great distances to see my father, to beg of him to create for them a stone to focus their powers through, to create a special stone that would increase their power, a stone that he and only he could make. When my father died they stopped coming. That was many, many years ago.”

  “He tried to teach me how to make the stones. Over and over he tried. All I was ever able to make were shiny baubles that were pretty to look at. The art of creating the power stones died with my father. Since then I have become what you see. I’m a poor, old woman living in a house she cannot afford. My father didn’t have a head for money. He never thought of the needs of the future. Soon I shall have to leave this place and all that it means to me.”

  Jorem stood in silence, unsure of what to say. A number of questions ran through his mind, but he refrained from asking them. He felt most of them would likely cause more harm than good. It saddened him that Sashia wouldn’t be able to live out the remainder of her life in her own home. He thought about giving her the coins left in his pouch, but the pride he had seen in her eye when she spoke her name told him she would not accept them.

  “I should be going,” Jorem told her. “It is getting late and I’ll need some daylight to find my way.”

  “The person that healed you,” Sashia said suddenly. “Is he a good person?”

  “She’s a healer,” Jorem replied, as if that was all that he needed to say.

  “That does not answer the question,” Sashia said tartly. “I have met many a healer and priest that I wouldn’t trust with a wooden spoon. A person’s occupation does not determine their inclination to do good or bad. What I want to know is if you think this healer is someone who can be trusted to do the right thing when she is given a choice.”

  Jorem thought for a moment before he answered. “Jennifer is one of the nicest people I know. She’s a trainee and still learning to use her gift. I don’t think she could be mean to anyone if she had to. She went out of her way to help me when she didn’t have the time or the need. So yes, I’d say that she is a very good person.”

  The old woman sat staring at Jorem for a while. “Good enough then, follow me.”

  Without giving any reason for her command, Sashia stood and walked out of the room. Jorem had to hurry to catch up with her. She went down hallways, up stairs and through several rooms. At last the old woman stopped in front of a closed door. Taking a key from a pocket, she unlocked the door and stepped into the room.

  The room they entered was amazingly similar to Pentrothe’s workshop. Shelves lined the walls and several tables were arranged with chairs around them. On nearly every surface that Jorem could see were what looked to be giant gemstones. Never had he seen gemstones of such size. Some were the size of his fist while others were nearly three times that size. Every color imaginable could be seen among the numerous gems. Jorem’s mouth hung agape at the apparent wealth before him.

  “Beautiful, aren’t they?” Sashia asked. “Beautiful, but worthless. I’ve never stopped trying to make the power stones as my father once did. These pretty baubles are all that I have to show for my efforts. Bits of glass and glimmer, that’s all they are.”

  As she spoke, Sashia walked across the room and opened the door of a dark, wooden cabinet. She retrieved another of the gem-like objects from the cabinet and carried it over to the table nearest to Jorem. Very gingerly, she set the stone down on the table. To Jorem it looked the same as all of the other stones, perhaps a bit smaller than most. This one was dark emerald green in color, as were several of the others in the room. The last rays of sunlight broke through the clouds and streamed in through the window. The many-faceted stones in the room sparkled like a million eyes and a rainbow of colors danced around the room.

  “This is the last of my father’s creations.” Sashia’s voice was so soft it was nearly a whisper. “Made for a healers touch. Give this to your healer friend. Let the last of my father’s work be used for good.”

  Jorem looked at the stone on the table. “What makes it so different from the others?”

  A deep sigh escaped the old woman’s lips. “For one thing, a stone of power is more delicate than spun glass. Breath on it too hard and it will fracture into a million shards. These others could be dropped from the peak of Mount Shanad and not see a scratch. A stone of power in the hands of a wielder of magic focuses the flow of magic. It intensifies the effect of the spells that are woven. Even a minor mage would seem a mighty sorcerer with the help of a true power stone.”

  From beneath the table Sashia pulled up a square, wooden box a bit more than two hand spans in length and width. It took her a moment to undo all of the latches that secured the lid. The inside of the box was filled with soft padding, save for a small depression in the middle. With the greatest of care Sashia nestled the dark green stone into the padding. Closing the lid over the stone, she proceeded to re-latch the clasps that secured the lid in place. She gently caressed the box as though it were a beloved child.

  “Most of the stones break within a cycle of being purchased. Even the wisest of mages can’t seem to resist the urge to hold them in their hands.” Sashia shook her head as she spoke. “Even the warmth of your hand can cause a power stone to fracture. Best to just leave it in the box. Father taught me how to handle them, though I must admit that I broke a few in learning.”

  The old woman looked at Jorem and slid the box toward him. “Thank you for helping on old woman. It’s been many years since a young man has stopped to lend a helping hand. Take this to your healer friend and see that she uses it for good. It will bring me happiness to know that my father’s work is still bettering this world.”

  Jorem hesitated to take the box. “I could pay you for…”

  Before he could finish what he was saying Sashia put her fingers to his lips. “This last stone must be a gif
t. That was my father’s wish, the last thing he said to me before he died. He said that it would bring me more than all of the others, but only if I gave it away. Take it. It is yours now.”

  Jorem stepped towards the table, but instead of picking up the box he reached out and picked up one of the other stones. This one was deep red and large enough that his fingers couldn’t wrap all the way around it. The surface of the stone was cool to the touch and as smooth as polished ice. It looked like a bloodstone to his unpracticed eye, one of the more valuable gems in the kingdom. The only thing that convinced him that it wasn’t a real gem was its size. The largest bloodstone he had ever heard of was no larger than his thumb.

  Holding the stone to his eye, Jorem peered into it. The waning light from the window danced into a myriad of scarlet images. “You said that these are worthless.” Jorem looked away from the stone and into Sashia’s eyes. “I don’t think so. In fact, I think that many would pay to own such a beautiful creation. Would you sell this one to me?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Jorem pulled out his money pouch and loosened its strings. The bewildered look on Sashia’s face was all he needed for an answer.

  “Why would you want to buy it?” she asked in confusion. “It’s not a stone of power. I only keep them to remind me of how many times I have failed.

  “You say that you made all of these?” Jorem asked, waving across the room at the shelves of stones. Before Sashia could respond he continued, “They are beautiful. To create something of such beauty once is chance. To have created all of these requires great talent. If what you say is true, then a power stone is useless for anyone other than a mage. This,” Jorem held out the red stone, “this I can hold and admire. I can even give it to someone else and know that they will admire it as much as I do.

  Glancing out of the window, Jorem saw that the daylight was nearly spent. If he was to find his way back to the road to the inn he had best be going. Getting lost in a strange city in the dark held no appeal at all. With a deft movement he upended the money pouch on the table, allowing the remaining coins to tumble out. The coins made a respectable pile on the table, though Jorem was unsure just how much there was.