A herald called out, “His lordship, Otto, Baron of Darkmoor, Lord of Ravensburg!”
The crowd let out a respectable if not overly enthusiastic cheer; the Baron was not particularly loved by his people, but neither was he held in disregard. Taxes were high, but then taxes were always high, and whatever protection the Baron’s soldiers afforded the townsfolk from bandits and raiders was barely visible; since it was far from any border or the wild lands of the Western Realm, few rogues and villains troubled honest travelers near Darkmoor. No goblin or troll had been seen in these mountains in the memory of the oldest man living in Ravensburg, so few saw much benefit in supporting soldiers who did little more than ride escort for their lord, polish armor, and eat. Still, the harvest was good, food was in bountiful supply and affordable, and order commanded gratitude from the citizens of the Barony.
When the cheer died down, the Baron turned to the notables of the town waiting to greet him and an audible gasp rang through the crowd. The man who stepped from the coach had once been equal to Erik in size, but now he stooped, as if thirty years older than his forty-five years. Though still broad of shoulder, his naturally slender build was now dramatically gaunt in contrast. His hair, once golden, was lank and grey, and his face was ashen, sunken cheeks white as bleached parchment. The square jaw and proud forehead were bony ridges that emphasized the look of illness. The Baron was helped by his younger son’s firm grip on his left arm. His movements were jerky and he looked as if he might fall.
Someone near Erik said, “So then it’s true about the seizure.”
Erik wondered if the Baron’s condition might be aggravated by his mother’s plan, but as if hearing his thoughts, Freida said, “I must do this.”
Pushing past those who stood before her, she moved quickly between two mounted guardsmen before they could turn her back. “As a free woman of the Kingdom, I claim my right to be heard!” she cried in a voice loud enough to carry across the square.
No one spoke. All eyes regarded the wiry woman as she pointed an accusing finger at the Baron. “Otto von Darkmoor, will you acknowledge Erik von Darkmoor as your son?”
The obviously ill Baron paused and turned to regard the woman who had asked him this question each time he had visited Ravensburg. His eyes searched past her and found her son, standing quietly behind her. Seeing his own image of younger years before him, Otto let his gaze linger upon Erik; then the Baroness came to his side and whispered quickly in his ear. With an expression of sadness on his face, the Baron shook his head slightly as he turned away from Erik’s mother and, without comment, moved into the largest building in the town, the Growers’ and Vintners’ Hall. The Baroness fixed a hard gaze upon Freida and Erik, barely masking her anger, before she turned to follow her husband into the hall.
Roo let out a sigh, and as one the crowd seemed to exhale. “Well, that’s that, then.”
Erik said, “I don’t think we’ll do this again.”
As Freida moved back toward them, Roo said, “Why? Do you think your mother’s going to stop if she gets another chance?”
Erik said, “She won’t get another chance. He’s dying.”
“How do you know?”
Erik shrugged. “The way he looked at me. He was saying good-bye.”
Freida walked past her son and Roo, her expression unreadable as she said, “We have work to do.”
Roo glanced back to where the two brothers, Manfred and Stefan, watched Erik closely, speaking quietly together. Manfred was restraining Stefan, who seemed eager to cross the square and confront Erik. Roo said, “Your half brothers don’t care for you much, do they? Especially that Stefan.”
Erik shrugged, but it was Freida who spoke. “He knows that soon he will inherit what is rightfully Erik’s.” Roo and Erik exchanged glances. Both knew better than to argue with Freida. She had always claimed that the Baron had wed her one spring night, in the woodland chapel, before a monk of Dala, Shield of the Weak. Then later he had requested and received an annulment so he could marry the daughter of the Duke of Ran, the records sealed by royal command for political reasons.
Roo said, “Then that is the last of it, for certain.”
Erik gave him a questioning look. “What do you mean?”
“If you’re right, next year Stefan will be Baron. By the look of things, he’s not the sort to hesitate about publicly calling your mother a liar.”
Freida stopped walking. Her face showed a hopelessness Erik had never seen before. “He wouldn’t dare,” she said, more a plea than a challenge. She attempted to look defiant, but her eyes showed she knew Roo was right.