Erik stood puzzled and angered as the following troop of soldiers approached. He had expected to speak at last to his father, not merely share a momentary glimpse.
As he turned to leave, the last rider reined in and said, “Erik!”
He turned to see Owen Greylock dismounting. Forgetting courtesy, Erik vented his anger. “I thought we were friends, Master Greylock, at least as much as rank permitted. But you had me traipse through the town to this place so that Stefan could insult and threaten me, and my father peek out from his warm carriage at me!”
Greylock said, “Erik, it was your father’s request.”
Erik put hands on hips and took a deep breath. “So it was his idea to have Stefan as much as tell me to leave the barony?”
Greylock led his treasured mare to where Erik stood, and put his hand on the younger man’s arm. “No, that was Stefan’s impromptu performance. Your father wished to see you one last time. He’s dying.”
Erik felt unexpected emotions break to the surface, panic and regret, all viewed somehow at a distance, as if the warring emotions were taking place within someone else’s breast. “Dying?”
“His chirurgeon warned against this, but with the Prince’s death, he felt the need to attempt the journey. Borric has named his youngest brother, Nicholas, to succeed his father, until his own son, Patrick, is of an age to rule the Western Realm. Nicholas is an unknown; everyone expected Erland to take the post. It could be a fair political bloodbath in Krondor this week.”
Erik knew the names: Borric, the King, and Erland, his younger twin brother. Patrick was the King’s eldest son, and by tradition one of the two should have taken the office of Prince of Krondor, but the intrigues of the court meant little to Erik.
“He asked me here so he could catch a glimpse of me as his carriage sped by?”
Greylock squeezed Erik’s arm for emphasis. “His last glimpse of you.” He removed something from his tunic. “And to give you this.”
Erik beheld a folded parchment being handed him by Greylock. He took it and noticed it was free of any stamp or seal. He unfolded it and began to read. “ ‘My son—’ ”
Greylock interrupted. “No one is to know the contents but you, and once you are done, I am to burn this. I will stand away while you read this to yourself.”
He led the horse away, while Erik read:
My son, If I am not yet dead when you read this, I soon shall be. I know you have many questions, and no doubt your mother has answered some. I am sorry to say that I can give you little more than that, and less satisfaction.
When we are young, we feel passions that are but faint memories when we are not very many years older. I think I did love your mother, when I was very young. But if so, then that love, like memories, faded.
If I have any regrets, it is that I could not know you. You were innocent of your mother’s and my indulgences, but I have responsibilities that cannot be set aside because of my regret over a youthful indiscretion. I hope you understand and realize that whatever life we might have imagined as father and son was an impossible illusion. I hope you are a good man, for I am proud of the blood that flows in both our veins, and would hope you honor it as well. I have never publicly denied your mother, because at least I can allow you a name. But beyond this I can do little else.
Your brother Stefan will be set against you in every way. My wife fears any threat to her son’s patrimony, and if it is any comfort to you, I have paid a price for remaining silent before your mother’s accusations. I have shielded you and your mother more than you might know, but once I am gone, that protection will vanish. I urge you to take your mother from the barony. There is a growing frontier along the Far Coast and in the Sunset Islands, and opportunities for a young man of ability. You could make something of yourself there.
Leave Ravensburg and Darkmoor, and make yourself known to one Sebastian Lender, a solicitor and litigator with an office at Barret’s Coffee House, on Regal Street in Krondor. He will have something there for you.
I can do no more. Life is often unfair, and while we might wish for justice, it is usually an illusion. For what it is worth, you have my blessing and my wish for a happy life.
Your Father
Erik held it in his hands a few moments after he had finished, and at last he held it out to Greylock. Owen took the parchment and produced one of the elegant flint and spring-loaded igniters that were all the rage among those who smoked tabac. He struck a series of sparks until one lodged in the parchment, and blew it to a flame. Holding the parchment by the edge, he let the flame grow until it engulfed the document. Just before his fingers would be burned, he let the parchment float away, rising on its own heat as it was consumed.