Shadow of a Dark Queen. Raymond E. Feist

as his own. Nearly every soul in the Barony knew the story. She had confronted him five years later, and again he had not rebutted her claim. His silence gave her declaration credence, and for years the tale of the bastard child of the Baron of Darkmoor had been a source of local lore, good for a drink from passing strangers bound between Eastern and Western Realms of the Kingdom.

      The mystery was always in the Baron’s silence, for had he denied it but once, from that day forward Freida would have had the burden of proof put squarely upon herself. The itinerant monk was never seen again in that region, and no other witness existed. And Freida had become the drudge of an innkeeper, and the boy a blacksmith’s helper.

      Some claimed that the Baron was merely being kind to Freida, refusing to publicly brand her a liar, for while he had obviously fathered her child, the claim of marriage was certainly the ranting of a disturbed woman or the calculated concoction of one seeking some advantage.

      Others said the Baron was too much a coward to proclaim a public lie by saying Erik was not his; for anyone had merely to glance at Otto to see that Erik was his very shadow. The Baron carried shame for a badge where a better man would wear honor, for to acknowledge Erik, even as a bastard son, would cast doubt upon his own children’s right to inherit, and bring down the wrath of his wife upon him.

      But for whatever reason, by saying nothing, every year, he let the challenge stand unanswered. Erik could claim the name ‘von Darkmoor’ because the Baron had never denied him the right.

      Slowly they moved through the street, back toward the inn. Roo, never one to let two minutes pass in silence back to back, said, ‘You going to do anything special tonight, Erik?’

      Erik knew what Roo referred to: the Baron’s visit was an excuse for a public holiday, nothing as formal as the traditional festivals, but enough so that men would pack the little Inn of the Pintail and drink and gamble most of the night, and many of the young girls of the town would be down at the fountain, waiting for the young men to drink enough liquid courage to come pay court. There would be plenty of work to keep Erik busy. He said as much.

      Roo said, ‘They are their mother’s sons, no doubt of that.’

      Erik knew whom Roo meant: his half brothers. Roo glanced over his shoulder, down the street to the square, where the Growers’ and Vintners’ Hall and the Baron’s carriage were still visible, and found that the two noble boys had returned outside, ostensibly to oversee the removal of the Baron’s baggage, but both were in hushed conversation, their eyes fixed upon Erik’s retreating back. Roo felt an impulse to make a rude gesture in their direction, but thought better of it. Even at this distance, he could tell their expression was of open hostility and dark anger. Turning back toward the inn, Roo hurried his step to catch up to Erik.

      Darkness brought a lessening of the day’s activities everywhere but at the Inn of the Pintail, where workers and town merchants who were not of sufficient rank to attend the dinner at the Growers’ and Vintners’ Hall gathered to enjoy a mug of wine or ale. A near-celebratory atmosphere gripped the inn as men told stories in loud voices, played cards and dice for copper coins, and tested their skill at a dart board.

      Erik had been pressed into kitchen duty, as he often was when things got busy. While his mother was only a serving woman, Milo allowed her the position of kitchen supervisor, simply because Freida was in the habit of telling everyone what they should be doing. That she was almost always right in her estimation of everyone’s duties failed to mitigate the irritation such an attitude generated. Many serving women had come and gone at the inn over the years, more than a few telling Milo the reasons for their departure. His answer was always the same: she was a longtime friend and they were not.

      By any reasonable measure, they acted the family, Freida and Erik, Milo and Rosalyn, husband and wife and brother and sister. Though each slept apart from the others, Milo in his room, Rosalyn in her own, Freida in a loft over the kitchen, and Erik upon a pallet in the barn, from awakening to bedtime they played their parts naturally. Freida ran the inn as if it were her own, and Milo was unwilling to overrule her, mostly because she did a wonderful job, but also because he, more than anyone, understood the pain Freida lived with daily. Though she would never admit it to anyone, she still loved the Baron, and Milo was convinced that her demand for recognition of her son was a twisted legacy of that love, a desperate grasping at some token that for a brief time she had truly loved and been loved.

      Erik pushed open the common room door and carried another cask of ordinary wine behind the bar, setting it at Milo’s feet. The old man removed the empty cask from the barrel rack and moved it aside, while Erik easily lifted the new one into its place. Placing a clean tap against the bung, Milo drove it home with a single blow from a wooden mallet, then poured himself a small cup to test the content. Making a face, he said, ‘Why, in the midst of the finest wine in the world, do we drink this?’

      Erik laughed. ‘Because it’s all we can afford, Milo.’

      The innkeeper shrugged. ‘You have an irritating habit of being honest.’ Smiling, he said, ‘Well, it’s all the same for effect, then, isn’t it? Three mugs of this will get you just as tipsy as three mugs of the Baron’s finest, won’t they?’

      At mention of the Baron, Erik’s face lost its merry expression. ‘I wouldn’t know,’ he said as he turned away.

      Milo put his hand on Erik’s shoulder, restraining him. ‘Sorry, lad.’

      Erik shrugged. ‘No slight intended, Milo – none taken.’

      ‘Why don’t you give yourself a break,’ said the innkeeper. ‘I can sense things are quieting down.’

      This brought a grin from Erik, for the sound in the common room was close to deafening, with laughter, animated conversation, and general rowdiness the norm. ‘If you say so.’

      Erik moved around from behind the bar, then pushed through the common room, and as he reached the door, Rosalyn threw him an accusatory look. He mouthed, ‘I’ll be back,’ and she threw her gaze heavenward a moment in feigned aggravation. Then she was again grabbing mugs off tables, heading back toward the bar.

      The night was cool; fall was full upon them. At any moment it might turn bitter cold in the mountains of Darkmoor. Though they were not as high as the Calastius to the west or the Teeth of the World in the far north, still snow graced the peaks in the colder winters, and frost was a worry to growers in any season but summer.

      Erik moved toward the town square, and as he anticipated, a few boys and girls still sat around the edge of the fountain before the Growers’ and Vintners’ Hall. Roo was speaking in low tones to a girl who managed to laugh at his suggestion while keeping an askance expression on her face. She was also employing her hands to good effect, limiting Roo’s to acceptable portions of her anatomy.

      Erik said, ‘Evening, Roo. Gwen.’

      The girl’s expression brightened as Erik came into view. One of the prettier girls in town, with red hair and large green eyes, Gwen had attempted to catch Erik’s eye on more than one occasion. She called his name as she firmly pushed Roo’s hands away. A few of the other youngsters of the town greeted the blacksmith’s helper, and Roo said, ‘Finished at the inn?’

      Erik shook his head. ‘Just a break. I’ll have to head back in a few minutes. Thought I’d get some air. Gets very smoky in there, and the noise …’

      Gwen was about to speak when something in Roo’s expression caused both her and Erik to turn. Coming into the light of the torches set around the fountain were two figures, dressed in fine clothing, swords swinging at their sides.

      Gwen came to her feet and attempted an awkward curtsy. Others followed, but Erik stood silently, and Roo sat open-mouthed.

      Stefan and Manfred von Darkmoor looked around the gathered boys and girls, roughly the same age as themselves, but their demeanor and finery set them apart as clearly as if they had been swans moving among geese and ducks in a pond. They had obviously been drinking from the way they moved, with the careful control of one who is masking intoxication.

      As Stefan’s gaze settled on