“Stop your woolgathering and come inside,” Freida demanded. She turned, and he followed her inside the kitchen.
Rosalyn smiled as Erik entered, and he nodded at the serving girl. The same age and companions since babyhood, Erik and the innkeeper’s daughter had been like brother and sister, confidants and best friends. Lately he had become aware that something deeper was blossoming in her, though he was unsure what to do about it. He loved her, but in a brotherly fashion, and he had never thought of her as a possible wife—his mother’s obsession closed off any discussion of such mundane concerns as marriage, trade, or travel. Of all the boys his age in the town, he was the only one not officially employed at a craft. His apprenticeship to Tyndal was informal, and despite his talent for the craft, he had no established standing with the guild offices, either in the Western Capital of Krondor or in the King’s city of Rillanon. Nor would his mother let him discuss having the smith live up to his oft-repeated promise of forwarding a formal petition to the guild to admit Erik as his apprentice. This should have been the end of Erik’s first year as an apprentice or working at a trade. Even though he knew his way around a forge better than apprentices two or three years older, he would start two years behind others, if his mother let him apprentice the next spring.
His mother, whose head barely reached his chin, said, “Let me look at you.” She reached up and took his chin in her hand, as if he were still a child, not nearly a man, and turned his head one way, then another. With a dissatisfied clucking sound, she said, “You’re still stained with soot.”
“Mother, I’m a blacksmith!” he protested.
“Clean yourself in the sink!” she commanded.
Erik knew better than to say anything. His mother was a creature of iron will and unbending certainty. Early he had learned never to argue with her; even when he was wrongly accused of some transgression, he would simply and quietly take whatever discipline was meted out, for to protest would only increase the punishment. Erik stripped off his shirt and laid it over the back of a chair next to the table used to clean and prepare meats. He saw Rosalyn’s amusement at his being bullied by his small mother, and he feigned a scowl at her. Her smile only broadened as she turned away, picking up a large basket of freshly washed vegetables to carry them into the common room. Turning at the door, she bumped it open and as she backed through stuck her tongue out at him.
Erik smiled as he plunged his arms into the water she had just abandoned after cleaning the vegetables. Rosalyn could make him smile as could no other person. He might not fully understand the powerful stirrings and confusing urges that woke him late at night as he dreamed about one or another young woman in the village—he understood the specifics of mating, as any child raised around animals did, but the emotional confusion was new to him. At least Rosalyn didn’t confuse him the way some of the older girls did, and of one thing he was certain: she was his best friend in the world. As he splashed water on his face again, he heard his mother say, “Use the soap.”
He sighed and picked up the foul-smelling block of soap sitting on the back of the sink. A caustic mix of lye, ash, rendered tallow, and sand used to scrape clean serving platters and cooking pots, it would peel the skin from face and hands with repeated use. Erik used as little as he could get away with, but when he was done he was forced to admit that a fairly impressive amount of soot had come off into the sink.
He managed to rinse off the soap before his skin began to blister, and took a cloth handed him by his mother. He dried and put his shirt back on.
Leaving the kitchen, they entered the common room, where Rosalyn was finishing putting the vegetables into the large cauldron of stew that hung on a hook at the hearth. The mix would simmer slowly all afternoon, filling the common room with a savory smell that would have mouths watering by suppertime. Rosalyn smiled at Erik as he passed, and despite her cheerfulness, he felt his mood darkening as he anticipated the coming public scene.
Reaching the entrance to the inn, Erik and his mother discovered Milo, the innkeeper, peering through the open door. The portly man, with a nose like a squashed cabbage from years of ejecting ruffians from the common room, drew upon a long pipe as he observed the calm town. “Could be a quiet afternoon, Freida.”
“But a frantic evening, Father,” said Rosalyn as she came to stand at Erik’s side. “Once the people tire of waiting for a glimpse of the Baron, they’ll all come here.”
Milo turned with a smile and winked at his daughter. “An outcome to be devoutly prayed for. I trust the Lady of Luck has no other plans.”
Freida muttered, “Ruthia has better things to waste her good luck on, Milo.” Taking her powerfully built son by the hand, as if he were still a baby, she led him purposefully through the door.