Silver May Tarnish Read Free

rode alone.
    We laid my mother to rest in the family cemetery, and after the rites were completed I took my pony and rode out alone. Deep in the hills I found a small bush of the hill-roses and brought it back. My father found me planting it at the head of the narrow turned-earth strip. I think at first he was angry that I had gone riding without leaving word—until he saw what I was doing. Then he helped me to plant the thorny bush. When we were done he touched a bloom lightly.
    â€œShe loved them. It was well done. Come now and eat. Remember my words, Lorcan. Even in fear, sorrow, or danger a man must eat and stay strong.” In a time to come it would be this simple battle-wisdom he said to me that I would remember and which would aid me to survive.
    A year passed slowly. Anla was fourteen that Spring, and once the deep snow had cleared from the mountain passes he rode to Paltendale to begin his training. Merrion came home in exchange, seventeen and a man. He took after our father, being tall and broad, whereas I took more after our mother. At eight I was strong enough, but it was a
wiry strength, I would be of medium height, so Talsa said. But my reactions were very fast. It had amused Berond, our master-at-arms, to begin teaching me the previous Spring. I think he began it as a way of occupying my mind, of diverting my grief for my mother. But then he became interested.
    â€œYou may never have the muscle for an ax or mace, lad. But a sword, one of the lighter kind with point and edge, with that in time you may do very well. Look now.” He hailed one of the guards, Harkon, who used an ax, and demonstrated. “See you. I parry his weapon with little power. His own strike takes him off-balance.”
    I saw. After that, and for the next two years after my mother’s death, I practiced. Nothing too onerous, mainly exercises to strengthen my arm and the basics of sword-drill. But I practiced hard, since it did indeed take my mind from grief. I learned well, so Berond’s measured praises were no empty words. My small sister Meera grew, toddling about the keep. I was her beloved brother; she followed where I went, a joy to me and a pleasure.
    Some time around then, Devol left Erondale while I was away hunting for two days with Anla. No one would talk of it on our return. I missed his humor and jests but something took him from my mind soon thereafter, for my second sorrow came to Erondale. That third Winter in her life, Meera took a chill. In less than twenty-four hours her life went out as a candle blown in a breeze and dark closed in. We buried her beside our mother and I did not think it unmanly to weep.
    After her death, though, I needed no distraction. Word was of war and our father rode out often. Sometimes to Paltendale, or other dales, sometimes to the coast to talk with the Sulcar and learn what they might have heard. Oft he took me with him, teaching me the ways of a riding warrior: how to ride hard yet make the journey lighter on my mount; how to scout, to make smokeless fires or a cold camp. I was ten that year and believed myself almost a man.

    There was unease amongst the lords in the dales at this time. There had been word of spies during the past year. There were strangers riding the dales asking questions, and more disturbingly, some appeared to be studying keep defenses. Such a man came to Erondale claiming the hospitality due a man of good birth. My father feasted him with Ayneta at the high table, but before the meal was over the man’s head was in his plate. He snored mightily as my father and the wise woman smiled knowingly at each other. When the stranger rode on next morning he had a sour look. I think that his head ached and he had found out little.
    We harvested hard that Fall. My father had a store of food and weapons in a small cave high on the trail over the hills. An alternate way to Paltendale, it could be used only by those on foot or riding experienced horses or the