“I got this scar because the man I was matched against in my first battle was vastly better at mayhem than I was. At that young age, anyway. He toyed with me, even—dammit! In the middle of a battle!—taunted me, played with me. Then took me down at his leisure, leering the whole time.”
He found himself gritting his teeth at the memory. Then, realizing what he was doing, barked a laugh. “Gods, he was good! I felt like a virgin in the hands of a rapist, I swear I did. I can remember my cheek slamming into the ground and the feel of his sandal stamping over me as he went on to his next victim. I was in a daze for . . . some time, while everything around me was a blur of noise and confusion and pain. The only clear thought I can remember was that I realized how Errena must have felt after Wodep took her in his beast form. Used, humiliated, discarded like so much trash. As if all that was left of her was the bones tossed into the litter, after her flesh was eaten.”
They were silent for a moment. Then Helga said, “Yes. And my—let’s call it a ‘wound’—didn’t take months to recover from, as yours did.” She eyed that portion of Demansk’s midriff skeptically. “You’re lucky, at that, you survived at all. If the blade had penetrated your bowels, you’d have spent weeks dying in agony.”
“True enough,” said Demansk. He took a deep breath. “All right, daughter of mine. I thank you—bless you—for understanding.”
Seeing the way Helga’s figure eased into relaxation, Demansk realized that she had misinterpreted the purpose of his visit. Again, he cleared his throat.
“But that’s not actually why I came to talk to you. Although I’m certainly glad we did. There is something else. Something . . . greater.” His lips twisted bitterly. “If ‘great’ isn’t an obscene word to use, given the subject.”
His daughter’s level and even gaze was back. All humor was gone.
“Oh,” she said. “That.”
Silence, for an instant. Then, as suddenly as a burst of sunlight erupting through a cloud bank: “And it’s about time!” she cried gaily. Again, she hefted the baby up before her eyes; jiggling him in a parody of the stern and vigorous way a mother shakes a sassy brat.
“See? I told you! Don’t ever underestimate your grandpa again!”
The baby’s mouth gaped open in glee at his mother’s exuberance. His wide-open eyes, as bright in their blue as they were vague in their focus, fairly shone in protest at such an outrageous accusation. Me? A few months old? Doubt my grandpa? Nonsense, Mother! YOU were the one—
Demansk was laughing again, and not softly. His daughter’s eyes moved to him, a skeptic’s sideways scrutiny.
“Not that he didn’t take a ridiculous amount of time to come to his decision,” she murmured darkly. “No better than an old pig farmer, fretting over whether he should fix the fence.” Her voice fell into a quaver. “Maybe tomorrer . . . my bones ache today . . . some more soup, first . . . build up my strength . . .”
* * *
For a time, the little patio in the garden was given over to a family’s gaiety. The laughter of a father and a daughter; and the innocent, confident, unknowing glee of an infant.
When it died away, Helga’s face was suffused by sadness.
“You’ll need to start by establishing your reputation. Well, not that exactly. Establishing it on an even higher pedestal than it is now. And, in the process, gaining the unquestioned loyalty of a major army.”
She sighed. “Which means, of course, leading a campaign against the Southron barbarians. The same ones Adrian and his brother have been stirring up against us these past few months.”
Demansk started to interrupt, but Helga waved him down. “Please, Father! Daughter of Vanbert. We do what we must.” He could see her fighting back the tears. “If you can manage not to kill him, I would . . . appreciate that. Immensely. But you must do what you must.”
* * *