Sorcerer's Son (7 page)

Westward he rode, opposite the direction he had taken two years before, and the forest stretched out before him as if there were nothing else In the world. The track narrowed for a time to an animal trail, but on the sixth day of his travels it widened abruptly, scattered with hacked-off trunks and the mushrooms that fed on their dead roots, and he knew that he was approaching the realms of men. The sun was high when he came upon the inn.

It was a rambling structure of weathered stone, with wooden cross braces bleached gray by many summers. Carven shutters flanked its many windows, open wide to the warm air, with white curtains fluttering gently. The inn stood in a narrow cleared space, great trees bending close to it, their leafy boughs brushing against the shingled roof, and among that greenery Cray could make out the thin plume of smoke spouting from the chimney.

A man labored In the yard before the building, cutting back grass with a scythe. He was a tall man, broad in girth, his face and bald pate red with exertion, framed by a peppery fringe of beard and hair. When he saw Cray, he straightened slowly. “May I serve you, sir?”

Cray drew his horse up and smiled at the man. “Are you the landlord?”

He bowed. “I am, sir, and I welcome you to the Sign of the Partridge, We have a fine dinner this day, if you care to stop with us.”

Cray eyed the yard, and the grass that was trimmed short into a fine lawn. Few horses, he guessed, had trampled that carpet in recent times. “Business has been poor lately, has it not?”

The landlord shrugged. “There have been better seasons. But truly, the food excels. I should know, for I am the cook.”

“The cook would hardly be the first to admit that he lacks skill.”

“No one has ever complained of my cooking, sir.” He grinned. “And if you do not like it, you need not pay.”

“In that case, I’ll dine,” said Cray, and he dismounted. He led Gallant across the grass to the front wall of the inn and threaded the reins loosely through an iron ring set in the stonework there. He gave the horse a quick pat, muttered some soothing nonsense in its ear and turned to find the landlord at the door, holding it open that Cray might enter.

Within was a single large room with high rafters and walls hung with hunting trophies. A long table occupied its center, with benches set in either side, and in the vast fireplace beyond, a brace of ducks was roasting, spitted, above a cheerful blaze.

“How many guests have you today?” asked Cray.

The landlord, who walked close behind him, said, “Only one, sir—yourself.”

Cray gestured toward the hearth. “Then that is your dinner, and your wife’s?”

He shook his head. “Mine alone, sir

or so it would have been had you not arrived. I have no wife, and no servants, either, just myself.” He chuckled, a sound that seemed to emanate from the depths of his ample belly. “Do not underestimate the appetite of a man my size, young sir.”

“I would not wish to eat your dinner,” Cray said hesitantly.

The landlord placed his hands on Cray’s shoulders and gently but firmly pushed him to a place on one of the benches. “The dinner is for my guests,” he said, “and only for me when my guests have done with it. What landlord have you ever known who ate before his patrons?”

Cray shrugged. “I’ve never known any landlords but you. I have never visited an inn before.”

“Never?” The man swung a leg over the bench and sat down facing Cray; seated, he was a head taller than the boy. “You mean you camp under the trees and cook your food over an open fire?”

“Yes. I cook quite well, too, or at least to my own taste.”

“Pleasant enough for one night, perhaps, or two, but not for a long journey.” He laughed again. “Else men like me would be hard pressed to earn a living.”

“This is my first long journey,” said Cray.,

“Ah.” The landlord lifted a quizzical eyebrow. “And how far have you to go?”

“To Falconhill.”

“Falconhill? A fair distance, young sir. A fair distance indeed.”

“Do you know it?”

“I have never been there, but travelers have spoken to me of the place. A mighty stronghold, they say.” He nodded slowly. “And rich as well.”

Cray interlaced his fingers and leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “Will this road take me there?”

“It will, yes, but

have you no map?”

“No.”

“This road joins another, and then it forks and forks again

How is it that you journey to Falconhill without knowing how to find it?”

“I heard it was to the west,” said Cray, “and I thought if I traveled far enough someone could advise me onward.”

“I can advise you well enough, I think, at least to take you to the land it rules, and then you will surely have no further difficulty

but

” He grinned. “No, it would be unmannerly for me to ask what business takes you there.” But he waited, expectantly, for Cray to respond to his prompting.

“I will find a master there,” said the boy, “to train me in knighthood.” He sniffed at the air, now redolent with the aroma of fowl juices. “Should you not be seeing to the ducks?” he asked.

The landlord rose unhurriedly. “I have not forgotten. They will be ready soon.” He strode to the fireplace, a few paces for his long legs. He prodded the ducks with a long two-tined fork till the juices dripped into the flames, sputtering, and then he turned the spit halfway around. “They will be ready soon indeed,” he called, and then he donned a thick gauntlet and reached into the flames, where a heavy, tightly covered iron pot rested on a grate; he pulled the pot out, setting it on the hearthstone. “I hope you like onions,” he said.

“I like onions very much,” replied Cray. He could feel his stomach roiling with hunger in response to the savory scent of the duck, and to take his mind off it, he stood up and made a circuit of the room, examining the trophies—antlers, tusks, claws, teeth, even a bear’s skull, yellowed and cracked with age, the lower jaw fixed to the upper with wire. “Did you take these trophies?” he inquired.

“Me? Oh, no, young sir, except for a few of the very small ones. We used to have an excellent huntsman in these parts, in the days when this was a main trade route to the east and this inn was bursting every night with travelers. He hunted game for the table then, for my father, who was landlord here before me, and we thought the trophies gave the walls a friendly look. And something to keep the guests busy while they waited for their food.”

“What happened to him?” asked Cray.

“Oh, that was many years ago, young sir. He is long dead. Nor have I any need for another like him in these times. I, poor hunter though I am, can take enough game to fill the pot, and there is a duck pond behind the inn, with more than enough birds for my needs. And flavorsome creatures they are, as you will soon discover. Will you take a cup of wine with your meal, young sir?”

“Yes, thank you.”

A flagon hung on a hook in the wall some distance from the heat of the fireplace; the landlord took the vessel down, and one of the cups that hung nearby as well, and he poured red wine for Cray, setting both cup and flagon on the table. Then he returned to the roasting birds, sliding each off the spit onto one of the broad wooden trenchers that lay stacked on the floor beside the hearthstone. He opened the iron pot next, and the sweet aroma of onions cooked in butter rose from it in a moist cloud; he scooped golden onion slices up with a ladle and mounded them about one of the ducks like a nest, and this trencher he brought to Cray, leaving the other, onionless, close before the fire.

“You’ll not need a knife to disjoint this bird, I promise you,” he said. “The flesh will be as tender as the onions.”

Cray’s mouth watered as he plucked gingerly at one of the drumsticks; he could scarcely touch it, it was still so hot. He looked up at the landlord. “What of your own dinner?” He nodded toward the remaining duck. “It will dry out sitting there.”

“It will keep well enough for a short time. And you might want more.”

Cray freed the leg and took a small bite of the steaming meat. Warm juices invaded his mouth and dripped down his chin. The landlord proffered a kerchief.

“It is delicious,” Cray said, somewhat indistinctly, as he chewed. “But I cannot eat more than one duck, I’m sure. You take the other.”

“I’ll wait.”

“Truly, I know my own capacity. I am half your size, and so I have only half of your appetite, good landlord.”

“Fine food sometimes increases the appetite,” the man said, and he folded his arms across his breast and rocked forward and back as he watched Cray eat. When Cray’s cup emptied, he poured another measure of wine. When Cray looked for salt, he fetched a cellar from the mantelpiece. “I have honeycakes to finish the meal,” he said when only the clean-picked carcass lay on Cray’s trencher.

Cray shook his head. “I could eat neither a honeycake nor a single extra scrap of duck. Have your dinner, landlord, and I hope that waiting before the fire has not damped its flavor. You spoke truly when you called yourself a good cook. Even my mother does not excel you.”

The landlord bowed. Then he brought out the honeycakes from their cupboard by the hearth and set them in front of Cray before bringing his own meal to the table. “In case you change your mind, young sir,” he said.

After some moments, Cray did change his mind, and he found the cakes excellent. By the time he had eaten a few of them and the food had settled deep enough in his stomach that he felt like riding again, the landlord had finished his meal and complimented his own cooking.

Cray stood up. “Now you can tell me of the route to Falconhill. You said the road forks more than once.”

“Considerably more. But if you follow the left-hand fork three times, twice west and the last time south, you’ll find yourself among folk who can direct you more precisely. Falconhill rules that land, and the inhabitants surely know where to pay their taxes.”

“Left three times. That sounds simple enough. And now, what is the charge for the fine meal I have just eaten?” He reached for the purse that hung at his belt

“Two coppers, young sir.”

“Two coppers,” said Cray. He found a few of that sort of coin among his silver and passed two of them to the landlord. “And a good season to you. If I come .back this way, I’ll be sure to stop for another meal.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Gallant was waiting patiently at its tether on the wall, but as soon as Cray swung into the saddle, the horse began to toss its head and to dance from hoof to hoof, as if eager to continue their journey. The boy had only to twitch the reins, and his mount trotted across the grass to the road and headed west upon it.

“Farewell,” called the landlord, walking a few paces down the path behind them. “And good luck.”

Cray glanced over his shoulder once and lifted his arm in salute; the second time he looked back, the trees that overhung the road on either side had already closed in upon the inn and its proprietor, and all Cray could see was forest.

Behind, the landlord watched till the boy was out of sight, till the echo of his horse’s hooves upon the hard ground faded to nothing, till there was no longer any likelihood that he would turn about. Then the big man’s shoulders slumped, and he seemed to fall in upon himself, shrinking, shriveling, his clothes fading, his flesh melting, until all that stood where the burly landlord had been was a small gray squirrel. Gildrum scampered across the grass and up a tree. Beneath that perch, the inn resumed its normal appearance, great cracks showing in the stone walls, mortar crumbled, gaping holes where shingles had rested, wooden braces chipped and splintered with neglect. Inside, the demon knew, the fire had gone out, the flagon and cups crumbled, the table and benches rotted with damp, the floor overgrown with weeds. Before the front door, the lawn had sprung to its full length, knee-high coarse grass, seed tops waving in the gentle breeze.

Magically, Gildrum flitted to another tree, farther along the road, and watched Cray pass beneath, then went to a third and did the same. After that, though it wished otherwise, it had to return to the errand its master had set it—an errand that should have taken a much smaller fraction of the day, although Rezhyk was not aware of that.

On its way, the demon stopped at Spinweb briefly. But Delivev did not show herself.

The tapestry drew a narrow line westward, with a stop every night and a few during the daytime, when she guessed he found game and paused to cook it, or to water his horse, or to admire wild flowers. He spoke to her occasionally, through the webs, perhaps two nights out of five, but he had little to say, only terse accounts of the vast forest, the birds, the beasts, the sun, the rain. She could see in the tapestry that he was making his slow way to Falconhill, but she never mentioned that to him. She had known for some time that his goal would be either Falconhill or the East March. He had seen other holdings in the webs, richer ones, more powerful ones, no more distant than those two. But his father’s name was not linked to any of them.

Spinweb seemed large and empty without Cray. Delivev had not realized, before he left, how much she depended on his voice, his smile, the clatter of his arms to fill her life, nor how much time she devoted to caring for him. Without his meals to prepare, his clothes to mend, his questions to answer, she felt incomplete. For days she wandered the halls of Spinweb, trying to recapture the life she had known before his birth, lavishing her love on plants and animals. She had thought herself lonely when Mellor left, but now she knew that had been nothing; Mellor, though she loved him, had only been with her a short time, like a dream, vanishing with the morn. Cray she had carried beneath her heart for nine months and kept at her knee for as many years and more; now, he was gone and she felt that part of her was gone as well.

I am getting old, she thought, though in sorcerous terms that was a lie.

She touched the tapestry as a few more threads were adding themselves to the weft; they moved under her fingers like snakes sliding under a door. Cray was probably camping for the night. She let a little time pass and then went to the chamber of the webs, in case he decided to speak to her.