A Tale Of Two Swords Part 10

Harold leaped forward and threw himself to his knees before his father.

"My liege," he said, clasping his hands in front of him. "My king. Command me."

His sire regarded him with a quite noticeable lack of expression. "Your liege? Your king? What prompts you to offer me such obeisance, my son?"

"I saw both swords," Harold admitted.

His father looked at him for another moment or two in silence, then sighed deeply and cast his wife a look. "I suppose he had to see eventually. I'm only surprised Imogen hasn't been asking questions. Did you not see her the other day, s.n.a.t.c.hing looks at the spell book of Wexham?"

"Aye," Mehar said with a laugh. "The next thing we know, she'll be turning Reynauld into a toad as payment for his chopping up her dolls for use as artillery bits."

Harold could hardly believe his ears. "Imogen? She possesses magic?"

His mother looked at him. "She is my daughter, Harry. I daresay that you might be a Camanae exception yourself. Your sight has cleared quite early and it was no weak spell we cast over this palace of Tor Neroche."

Tor Neroche. Neroche of the mountains. Harold shook his head. Why had he never seen it before? Why had he never questioned his mother more fully about her past, or questioned his sire more fully about his? And to think he himself might possess magic. That he could believe, but the thought of anyone else in his family claiming the like, especially his sister, was too much for even him. He looked at his mother.

"But Imogen," he protested. "She's just so ... so ..."

His father cast him a mild look of warning and Harold turned away from his thoughts of disbelief that his sister could do anything more complicated than find ways to match purple with red and make it look appealing before he borrowed trouble. He smiled weakly at his father and found a wry smile greeting him in return.

"When did you intend to tell us?" Harold asked. If his father was looking that accommodating, he might get in a few questions whilst he could. "And won't Reynauld be surprised! An Angesand steed will surely be his!"

Gilraehen laughed as he knelt down on one knee and looked at his youngest son. "Aye, that is possible, though if he thought about it hard enough, he would realize that the ancient, h.o.a.ry-haired steed he tends so carefully in that una.s.suming stall is none other than Fleet, Queen Mehar's winged steed."

Harold could hardly believe his ears. "Fleet?" he squeaked. "That is Fleet?"

"Who has sired many, many fine horses that you have watched your mother ride more than once. Perhaps you haven't marked her skill."

Harold gave that some thought. He'd been generally more concerned about the bug life crawling about in the mud than his mother's skill with beasts, though he had to admit upon further reflection, that she was a capital horse-woman. He nodded at his mother, then turned back to his sire for further answers.

"When did you intend to tell me all this?" he asked again.

Gilraehen the Fey laughed and ruffled Harold's hair affectionately with a hand that was scarred-Harold could see that now-but whole.

"You did intend to tell me, didn't you?" Harold pressed.

"Aye," Gilraehen said, "we would have. When it was necessary. When we were prepared to wage war. When we thought Lothar could be taken."

Harold rubbed his hands together expectantly. "Well, what do we do now? What is our plan?"

Gilraehen shot Mehar a look that Harold considered far fuller of amus.e.m.e.nt than the situation warranted, but he was getting answers to his questions and he was privy to the king's counsels, so he wasn't going to take his sire to task when there were still answers to be had. He waited patiently for further enlightenment.

"How do you feel, Harold my lad, about an adventure?"

Could life improve? Harold almost leaped with joy. "An adventure?" he asked rapturously.

"Aye, my son, an adventure. But," he added seriously, "it will not be an adventure for lads with no stomach for danger. It will require courage, sacrifice, loyalty to the highest degree. And a willingness to pay whatever price is necessary to ensure victory. And even then, we cannot be a.s.sured of victory during the course of our battle. The war will be long, for the enemy is cunning and has nothing to live for save his own misery. We may fight, only to leave the ending of the war to others."

"If it means I can fight with you, Father, then the ending does not matter."

"Then put your hands in mine, son, and pledge me your fealty. And then, I suppose, we must see to fas.h.i.+oning you a sword. Perhaps you might ask your mother. She's quite skilled at that sort of thing."

IT was quite a bit later that Harold went to bed. His brother was already asleep, snoring as he lay on his back, sleeping the sleep of the uninformed. Harold tried not to feel superior as he sought his own bed, but he failed completely.

He had pledged fealty to Gilraehen the Fey, King of Neroche.

He had discussed the making of a sword with Mehar the Queen, his very own mother and sword-maker extraordinaire.

His head was full of visions of glory, danger, mighty deeds that would be sung of for generations to come. And he, Harold of Neroche, son of the king, would be involved in all of them.

And if that wasn't an adventure of the first order, he didn't know what was.

The End.