Sorcerer's Son by Phyllis Eisenstein Read Free Book Online

hope?”
    “Not to my knowledge, my lord.”
    He spoke very quickly. “I know that a few of my people have been hunting in the forest that separates her land from mine. They have not trespassed, have they? I will punish any that do, I swear it. Or she may punish them herself, as she wishes, I will not say her nay.”
    “I know of no trespassers, my lord.”
    The man in blue relaxed visibly. “I wish to stay on good terms with her. You can understand that, I’m sure.”
    “Of course, my lord.”
    “Now
    arms.” He frowned. “Why would the child of a sorceress desire such things?”
    “I intend to be a knight, as my father was.”
    “Your father was not a sorcerer?”
    “No, my lord.”
    “Who was he, then?”
    “His name was Mellor, and his device was three red lances interlocked on a white field.”
    The man in blue shook his head. “I do not recognize either.”
    “I would not expect it, my lord. My mother told me he was sworn to the Lord of the East March, and that is very far away for any of its knights to be known in these lands.”
    “Far indeed.” His hands left the arms of his chair and came together, the palm of one slowly stroking the knuckles of the other. “Arms,” he murmured.
    “I can pay for them, my lord.”
    “Oh, I would sell them to the son of the Weaver for a fair price. But not to just anyone who came asking for them. Not, I think, to a boy who offered payment with stolen silver, for example.” He leaned forward. “After all, how can I be sure you are who you say you are?”
    Cray smiled. “I can prove it, my lord, if I must.”
    The man straightened, his shoulders striking the back of his chair with an audible thump. “How would you prove it, if I asked for proof?”
    “You wear long sleeves, my lord. I could roll them to your elbows.”
    “Well, and so could I.”
    “But I would not touch them while doing so.”
    The lord set his palms flat on his thighs. “You may do so,” he said.
    Cray gestured with one outstretched hand, and the lord’s left sleeve began to roll itself up his arm. All around him, people ceased their conversations and turned to look, and many of them stepped back, clutching their own sleeves, as if afraid they, too, might begin to move of their own volition.
    “Enough!” shouted the lord of the fortress, and he stood up suddenly, brushing his sleeve down with the opposite hand as he might brush at an insect crawling on his skin.
    “I can do more than that,” said Cray, “but I would not wish to damage your property, my lord.”
    “No more is necessary, my curiosity is satisfied.” He called over his shoulder, “Steward!”
    The steward, who was among those who had reeled back from the magic of the sleeve, skittered to his liege’s side. He was a small, slight man with a spade beard, and he held his hands curled to his chest as if protecting some treasure that lay within. “My lord?”
    “Serve this young man supper, and then give him whatever arms and armor he requires. As a personal gift from me.”
    Cray bowed. “My lord, I have silver enough to pay.”
    The lord bowed in return. “As you wish. Let the price be a fair one, steward. And Master Cray—please convey my best wishes to your mother.”
    “I will, my lord.”
    “This way, sir,” said the steward.
    Cray bolted a quick supper, then followed the steward to the armory, which was a long narrow room with hundreds of steel pegs driven into its stone walls and all the trappings of combat hung upon those pegs. With the steward’s help, Cray selected a blank shield, a simple bowl-shaped helm with movable visor, a shirt and hood and leg harnesses of chain, and a sword in a plain scabbard. All were in good condition, though all had seen use. The sword was nicked in two places; the steward offered to have the nicks ground out, but Cray refused.
    “It will only get nicked again when I use it,” he said. He tested the balance of the blade, swinging at an imaginary foe. His wooden sword had not been light, but steel was heavier, and he knew that the muscles in his