Fiction: Son's Blood - Chapter Two (Part 2)

Remembering, how down on her luck she'd been at their first meeting, Bracer rubbed her wrists. She'd still had the silver bracers then, though she thought she might have to sell them to live. They'd cost a lot when she bought them, for the smith who'd made them was reluctant to separate the wrist guards from their set of matching greaves. The shin guards' weight around her ankles would have slowed her down, but she needed the bracers. Little did she realize, when she bought them to cover the bindings that strengthened her wrists, that they would do more than hide her one weakness. She'd paid an exorbitant price forher vanity, but the bracers earned her a nickname that stuck.

The shining wrist guards were what first brought Kinsa to Bracers' attention. The girl crept around her campsite, eyeing them with such interest that Bracer took her for a thief. Finally, the girl's respect and interest convinced Bracer that her claim of wanting to learn soldiering was sincere.

Bracer was glad for the company, and for the small amount of money the young woman could pay for lessons. They eventually earned enough to move on together. Though she'd been approached by women before, Bracer had never been attracted to another member of her own sex. She took her affection for Kinsa as friendship at first, but eventually began to admit to her feelings for the other woman and accept the comfort Kinsa had been offering all along.

Once she accepted her feelings for Kinsa, Bracer found her life began to change. She no longer changed companions as often as she did employers. The two women hired on as a team, or not at all.

Kinsa was the only person, besides Alonder, that Bracer ever truly loved. She'd had bedmates over the years, but never any emotional attachment. Part of her wanted to stay faithful to Alonder, but, truthfully, there were few men she felt attracted to.

What she felt for Kinsa was different from what she had shared with Alonder. Perhaps it was because the women were equals. Though they began as pupil and teacher, Kinsa's natural abilities helped her learn quickly. They were soon partners, indulging in a career of friendly rivalry. At the end of a battle, each would tally her kills, bragging to the other about having done the most damage, then they'd end up sleeping in each other's arms.

Bracer now regretted not seeing the destructive side of their rivalry. It was a playful thing at first, with the student trying to best the teacher, but always falling short. After nearly seven years together, though, Bracer began to see that Kinsa's skill was beginning to surpass her own. Kinsa, being much younger, was just reaching her peak, honing her abilities to perfection. Bracer remained a good soldier, using her years of experience to compensate for losing her edge in the battle with time.

Their competitiveness lead to quarrels. One petty squabble ended with Bracer stamping off in a huff. She joined a group of gamblers, hoping an evening with the dice would take her mind off Kinsa. Instead, Bracer was so preoccupied with their argument that she lost heavily before she realized what was happening. In a desperate attempt to win back her money, she wagered the silver bracers, losing them, too.

When Bracer returned to their tent, Kinsa noticed immediately that the wrist guards were missing.

"Where are your bracers?" she asked, not bothering to disguise the surprise in her voice.

"I lost them."

"You gambled away your prize possessions? Why would you do such a thing?" Kinsa paused, then, apparently guessed what had happened. "Did you lose all your money as well?"

In answer, Bracer threw her flat, empty purse onto the floor.

"How could you do such a stupid thing? A whole month's wages gone in one night. You old fool!" Kinsa stormed out of the tent. Only later did Bracer find out that she'd gone to try to buy back the bracers.

The swordmates did not fight side by side that following morning. Bracer was still hurt and angry about Kinsa's words, so she volunteered to ride ahead with a scouting party. While the party was away, the camp was attacked. When the scouts returned, the enemy had already been driven off, but not without great cost to her company. Bracer first looked for Kinsa in what remained of their tent.

When she did not find her there, Bracer looked among the lines of still able fighters who had formed a protective border about the camp. Then she looked among the injured who had gathered for treatment in one of the larger tents that survived the attack. When she could not find her friend anywhere else, Bracer began a grisly search of the battlefield. It took an hour for her to locate Kinsa. At first glance, the woman seemed dead already. Her eyes were closed, her chest was covered with blood that had dried in the mid-morning sun.

"Kinsa," Bracer whispered as she knelt beside her fallen friend. "Forgive me."

"Brace..." Kinsa rasped through cracked lips. Her eyelids parted almost imperceptively.

"I shouldn't have left you," Bracer's throat tightened, but she refused to let herself cry.

"Shhh..." Kinsa hissed. "Don't mourn. This is how a swordswoman should die." Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth as she forced the words out.

Bracer wiped the red trail away with her fingers.

Kinsa's eyes opened a little wider. She looked at Bracer's hands and the ragged wrist wrappings that the silver bracers had once concealed.

"I couldn't get them back," she said softly. Bracer did not realize at first what she was talking about, but watched the wounded woman take a deep breath and grimace. "Tear up my scarlet tunic," Kinsa went on, though Bracer could tell that each syllable pained her. "At least your wrists will have more flash than they do in those rags."

Kinsa even managed to force her sun-chafed lips into a faint smile.

"Let me go find you some water."

"Don't bother. Stay here." Kinsa's voice became weaker. "Hold me."

Carefully, Bracer slid her arm under Kinsa's shoulders. The ground was damp with what Bracer knew was her friend's blood. She gently lifted the woman till Kinsa's head rested against her own shoulder.

"I love you, Kinsa," Bracer whispered. "I love you better than I have ever loved anyone."

Kinsa never responded.

Later, Bracer saw to her burial and claimed Kinsa's belongings. No one challenged her right to do so. As Kinsa wished, Bracer tore the red linen tunic into strips to be used as wrist bindings. All Kinsa's other belongings were disposed of at one time or another, for only the scraps of scarlet which now bound her bundled sword, held any real meaning. Kinsa had always liked colorful clothing.

And here I sit in drab rags, Bracer thought once more.

Determined that Kinsa would not be shamed by her appearance before the chancellor, Bracer rose and brushed the straw from her clothing. Selling the cart should bring enough to buy decent garments in the city, but she would keep the horse. Once she'd listened to Alonder's job offer, she'd ride out of Vastall and off to whatever the future held.

As she hitched up the horse, she kept herself from worrying about whether Alonder would recognize her, by wondering what sort of work he might think appropriate for a woman he so obviously disdained.

Fiction: Son's Blood - Chapter Two (Part 1)

Bracer was still called Arista when she gave birth to Alonder's son. The girl, not quite fifteen, was frightened by the infant, his hungry mouth searching for her sore nipples, his face reddening with angry wails when she did not meet his need fast enough. Yet, when she ran away, it was not really the baby she had fled. Now, reconciling the images of the red-faced infant and the pain-wracked soldier, Bracer wished she could have made him understand that before he died.

She stroked the hexagonal badge once more, recalling how her own hair had once been that color. Later it turned to auburn, giving way now to gray. She had never been happy with the color, perhaps still haunted by the tales of Shefar and Dogu. Alonder's mother, however, held the copper tresses in high regard. She was greatly disappointed that her grandson did not have the red-orange hair that would prove his kinship to the Venire family.

Arista knew that her husband's family valued her only for her blood. All along, they mistreated her, forcing her to work as a servant in the household. Even after giving birth to the heir they desired, the girl knew they would not spare her. In fact, Alonder's mother acted as if Arista had pitefully chosen to bear a dark-haired child. The girl knew things would be even worse for her once she'd recovered from the birthing. Before they knew she'd regained her strength, she ran away.

The stable door opened, driving away her thoughts of the past. Bracer quickly shoved the wrapped sword back beneath the hay in her cart, hoping the returning stable boy did not notice.

As he led her horse to a nearby stall, Bracer forced herself back to some semblance of strength. A warrior woman could not get emotional over a kill. The idea turned her stomach now, despite its truth. Theirs had been a fair fight. Why did it haunt her? Because his flesh had formed within her own, was his life more difficult to take?

When the lad had finished, he gave her a nod of courtesy mixed with curiosity, then left. She watched him exit with detachment. Her son had once been that age, yet she found that missing his growth mattered less than it should have. Bracer felt grief, but no regret for the choices she'd made. She had fled the responsibilities of being a wife and mother, even though those were the things most girls longed for.

No, she realized, I would not have liked that life. I loved being free, wandering, loving Kinsa and those before her. Bracer would not have wanted to change the way she lived. But, if her young husband had somehow found her. If Lon had been willing to let her be both mother and soldier, she would have stayed with him.

Bracer's purpose for returning was not to lament the life she had lost, nor even to mourn the loss of her son. That the Hordavan captain might really her son seemed too improbable. Still, the incident had reminded her that she had a son somewhere. The idea that she might yet meet him in battle worried her. She could not trust her skill as a fighter, if she began searching the faces of her foes for traces of Alonder and herself. What if doubt made her hesitate to deal a death blow?

"The warrior who cannot kill does not live," was a proverb oft repeated around campfires. Bracer believed it enough to feel driven to locate her son.

She imagined she'd find him safely tucked away in the merchant trade of Alonder's family. Once reality set her dark fantasies to rest, she would have resumed her life as a mercenary soldier. But now?

Her son was dead. She no longer needed to fear meeting him in battle. Yet she felt reluctant to return to soldiering. There were other ways to earn money with a sword. Perhaps she could become a caravan escort, or a bodyguard. Maybe she should return to the wetlands and train other girls at the fighting school where she had learned warfare.

What I really want to do is find a way to make up for taking my own son's life, she admitted. But she did not understand why she felt so guilty. And why am I staying here? she wondered, knowing that another meeting with Alonder would only bring more anguish.

The practical side of Bracer began taking over. She should leave now. Staying to see Lon again was pure folly. He'd made his attitude toward mercenary swordswomen quite clear. If he discovered who she was, his reaction would only add to the guilt she already felt. More than that, if he should guess that she had killed his son, Alonder was in a position to have her swiftly executed.

Death was not the method she'd choose to redeem herself. But, she felt drawn to Alonder. While his family had mistreated her, he had been only kind and loving. If his service to Shasteral had not kept him away so much of the time, Arista would not have needed to run away.

Still, she argued to herself, abiding here could never have been as satisfying as her life of adventure. Yet she wondered what might have happened if her husband had found her later, and had been willing to let her be both soldier and wife. Perhaps then she could have enjoyed being a mother.

Seeing Lon after so many years confirmed one thing. She had loved him. Even now, she wanted to hold and comfort him. Tears started to film her eyes again, but she wiped them quickly away with the sleeve of her dress. The rough material made her stop and stare down at the coarse, ugly garment.

Why am I still in rags? she wondered. Lon knows I'm a swordswoman. If I am going to face him again, I might as well look the part.

In order to disguise herself, she'd used black root pulp to cover the few reddish glints still in her hair. As her gray hair resisted the dye, most of it still showed. That seemed appropriate for an old peasant, and would fit, as well, the aging mercenary she intended to portray now.

But what identity could she use? Alonder would want a name, possibly more. Never a facile liar, Bracer was not sure she could stand up to close questioning. She needed a complete identity to replace her own; a new birthplace, parents, history. Who had she known intimately enough to have picked up all those tidbits of past life?

Kinsa, of course! Bracer felt comforted by the memory of her not so long dead companion. It would be nice to be teamed with Kinsa again, if only in spirit. They had been traveling companions, swordmates and lovers for almost seven years. Nothing but death could have come between them. They had shared each other's secrets and dreams, joys and sorrows. Bracer would have no difficulty portraying her old friend.

Tomorrow, she told herself, Kinsa the swordswoman will appear before Lord Alonder, Chancellor of Bacaria. She pictured the meeting in her mind. Perhaps he would let Kinsa comfort him. Just as you would comfort me if you were here.

She closed her eyes, hoping to evoke a sense of her old companion's presence. Instead she found herself recalling their last moments together. Did all my luck leave with you? Bracer wondered. Or was my betrayal of you what brought this curse upon me?

The Story Behind "Son's Blood"

Bracer was the main character in the first story I sold. "More's the Pity" told the story of a mercenary swordswoman who mortally wounds an enemy soldier on the battle field. Before she can give the man a quick, merciful death, her partner notices the fallen warrior is an officer and decides to torture him for information. While Bracer tries to make it easier on the man, she realizes he may be the son she abandoned years before. As often happens, the character took on a life of her own.

My second story, "Die Like a Man", was a prequel to the first, telling how Bracer became a swordswoman. Her real name was Arista and she was a cousin of royalty. Married off for political gain, she loved her young husband, but he was always gone and his family treated her badly. Events led to her masquerading as a boy and being taken under the tutelage of a fighter.

After writing that story, I realized that Bracer would have needed to know if the man had been her son. From that feeling came the impetus to write the story of her return to her former husband's home. It grew into a novel as her quest kept making her want to learn more about the boy she had left behind.

I was on a panel at a convention once when I told this story. Half-way through, I was interrupted by another panelist. "You wrote that story?" she asked. "I loved that character." I do, too, and I am sharing this novel in hopes that others will, too.

How I Made My First Sale

My first story sale was to Marion Zimmer Bradley for Sword and Sorceress III, but that really isn't where things began. I'd actually submitted a story for the previous anthology, but it was rejected. Over the next few months, the first Sword and Sorcerous came out and I had an opportunity to see the types of stories she bought. I had also read a few of her Darkover novels, so I had an idea of what she wrote.

Ironically, I had submitted that first story because I had read in a writer's magazine that she didn't send out form rejection slips, but actually gave some feedback. What I got back was such scathing criticism that I decided to never try submitting anything again. However, a few months later I had to opportunity to see her at a science fiction convention. By that time, I had become a fan, so I attended all the panels she appeared on. I learned many things from the panels, but the most important thing I learned came not from what the panelists taught, but what I observed.

Editors are human. They have their own tastes and what one loves, another might hate. I submitted that first story to another editor who also rejected it, but for entirely different reasons. Years later, I ran across that first rejection slip from Marion and it was not the horrible missive I remembered, but a note about the size of a quarter of a piece of paper.

Long before that, though, I had decided to make another try at selling her a story. This time, I had a better idea of what she might like. I made it a fairly short story because I knew that would have a better chance of selling. I also made a list of possible topics. One of them was a twist on the civil war concept of brother against brother, father against son. What would it be like for a mother and son to face in battle?

What I ended up with was a story that made my best friend cry. I didn't know it a the time, but she had given up a baby for adoption years earlier. The story is dark, and sad, but sometimes it touches people, too, and for reasons I never anticipated. Needless to say, Marion did buy "More's the Pity", but in her foreword she says that she almost didn't. I'll explain more about the story and how it led to two others, as well as two unpublished novels, next time I have a chance to post.

Fiction: Son's Blood - Chapter One (Part 3)

"That's him," Bracer said, as much to herself as to Alonder. Her voice cracked with unexpected emotion, reminding her that she had momentarily forgotten her disguise.

She turned to see Lon's reaction. He stood with his gaze fastened on the portrait. After a moment, he seemed to remember she was there.

"My first son," he told her, stopping to clear his throat, "named Alonder, as is family custom." The man sighed. "Perhaps your story is true. What else did he tell you?"

She hesitated, knowing she must regain control of her voice or arouse his suspicion. Taking one deep breath, she began the painful disclosure.

"He said his mother abandoned him at birth. When he tried to win his step-mother's affection, he felt only rejection. The boy believed she resented him because she wanted his inheritance for her own children."

Lon nodded sadly.

"Did he tell you his mother's name?"

Bracer bit the inside of her mouth to stifle the surge of emotion she felt.

"He would not speak it," she answered slowly. "He hated her and cursed her soul."

Alonder's shoulders sagged. He turned his back to her and paced off toward his study.

Bracer stared down at the design of the floor tiles, not wanting to witness Alonder's grief, afraid to look again at the portrait of the now-dead boy. When Alonder came back toward her, she looked at his boots, unable to bear seeing his face. Even then, the pain in his voice unnerved her.

"Did you bring no token for me to remember him by? His sword, a scrap of his cloak?"

"I am sorry, lord. Everything of value was taken from him on the battlefield. His clothes were buried with him." She hoped he would dismiss her soon. Bracer did not think she could retain her composure much longer.

"Why do you lie to me?" Lon demanded suddenly. Startled, she backed away. Had he guessed about the badge? Or, worse yet, had he recognized her? Hoping for the best, she kept up her act.

"My lord, what do you mean?"

"You say you are a nurse. You pose as a peasant woman." Lon pointed an accusing finger at her. "Yet your demeanor is not like any woman I have ever known. Your hands are calloused and strong." He scowled at her, but came no closer. "You have a soldier's bearing. You even walk like a fighter, no matter how you stoop in an effort to disguise it. Why have you tried to fool me?"

"Forgive me, my lord," she begged as her mind raced for a new story. Not the truth, she could never tell him that, but something close enough to be believeable.

"I was a mercenary, sire. I fought beside your son." It all spilled out too rapidly. She stopped, battling her anxiety, and continued with more control. "Most men of your class revile women like me. I feared you would not receive my message if you knew what I really am, and..."

"Spit it out, woman. Tell me your motive," he was shouting now.

In response to their raised voices, the steward appeared at the end of the corridor, but Lon waved him away. The interruption gave Bracer a moment to collect her thoughts.

"I am growing older, Lord Alonder. Enough past my prime with a sword to begin looking for another way to earn a living. I thought, perhaps, you would give me work in your household."

Lon glared at her and did not take any time considering her request.

"Do you really think I would have a woman like you in my house? Bacaria has never let its women take up the sword. Nor has King Shasteral ever needed to hire mercenaries. What honor is there in selling your loyalty? I have more respect for camp-following whores than for mercenary swordswomen."

She had heard these things before, and even coming from a man she had once loved, they held little sting. At another time, such words might have provoked her to challenge him. Today, their cut was dull, considering the anguish of her own guilt. What if he knew that she had not been his son's swordmate, but, instead, his executioner?

Bracer pushed past him, intending to leave. With her pretense of age no longer necessary, she strode down the hall. This was not the first time she had used this corridor to escape the torment Alonder's house held. But, before she reached the end of the corridor, he called after her, "Wait."

She stopped and faced him once again. Alonder walked stiffly toward her. Looking down at her coldly, he spoke.

"Perhaps I do have employment for you."

Bracer waited for him to continue, wanting only to have the meeting ended as quickly as possible. Alonder shook his head.

"Not now. I need time to think. I will send for you tomorrow, after I've had time to mourn. My steward will tend to your needs."

He waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. Bracer turned and walked back to find the steward.

"Could you not have brought some keepsake from my firstborn?" he shouted after her.

Picturing the copper badge she had taken from the dead man's cloak, she ignored him. It's mine, she thought defiantly.

Again, the steward appeared at the end of the corridor.

"Let this woman stay in the stable," Alonder instructed, "and tell the cook to feed her." The servant nodded, and Lon added, "I want no more visitors today."

Minutes later, with the help of a boy summoned by the steward, Bracer brought her cart into Lord Alonder's stable. She let the young servant unhook the horse and take it out to be watered. Once he had left, Bracer, trembling with too long-suppressed emotion, pushed the stable door shut and climbed into the cart. Pawing through the hay, not caring how she strewed it about, she located the hidden bundle. Lifting it with uncharacteristic tenderness, she cradled the wrapped sword like an infant and lightly stroked the copper badge at its hilt.

"So, you were my son," she whispered, remembering the stranger she had tried to comfort as he died. She had thought the doubt too awful to live with, but now she regretted making this journey. The uncertainty had been gentler than the horror she felt now at her worst fear's confirmation.

Though Bracer had not guessed it at the time, she had struck down her own son. They had been nothing more than two mercenaries, by chance, on opposing sides in a war that meant nothing but wages to either of them.

She stroked the badge once more, surprised that it still felt cold beneath her fingers. Had it not been for this, she'd have dispatched the man quickly and never had a clue to their link. In the haste of battle, she'd never have noticed his resemblance to Alonder.

But the man had been a captain. Bracer's partner, Mongrel, believed he might have information that would earn them a bonus from King Rasperd. So, while the man endured an agonizing death, his two captors had questioned him.

Sickened by the memory of how Mongrel had tortured her son, she threw herself into the hay, letting it smother her sobs. When she could think again, Bracer realized she had not wept since leaving this house so long ago.

If I believed in gods, she told herself bitterly, I would think that they have cursed me.

Fiction: Son's Blood - Chapter One (Part 2)

Choosing not to dwell on problems she had escaped, Bracer made her way toward the market square. Even if the general traffic had not all been going that direction, she would have had no trouble finding her way. The city seemed unchanged, despite her thirty year absence. It even smelled the same, the manure reek of the stables near the gates giving way to the spicy fragrance of foods being prepared at the open ovens of the marketplace. She picked her way unerringly through the stalls, ignoring the calls of vendors. Foolishly, she found herself searching the faces of the street children, as though the friends of her youth might still be among them, unchanged as the city.

A cluster of these had gathered at a puppeteer's stall. With elaborately dressed wooden figures attached to sticks, he was giving the youngsters a sample of what he would show paying customers later in the day.

"Soloh, forgive me," came the puppeteer's shrill imitation of a feminine voice, "I have been wrong." The golden-haired puppet, clad in rainbow hues, was leaned forward so it looked like it bowed to the other wooden figure. As that figure was waggled back and forth, the puppeteer changed to a deep voice.

"You are forgiven, but the harm you have done cannot be easily repaired." Shefar and Soloh. Bracer knew the story, and hearing it again sent a cold shiver along her ribs. Unwilling to let childhood fears haunt her, the disguised swordswoman stopped to listen to Shefar's next words.

"I swear, great Soloh, that my children shall be the instrument of setting the world right."

Then the puppeteer's tone changed again and he let out a hideous cackle. Dogu had arrived and as the demon began to speak, she could no longer tolerated the performance.

"I will never surrender my will to you," the hideous dog-god hissed." Torture my creations if you will, it matters not. They are made in my image, not yours, and can endure all manner of cruelty."

Bracer had always hated that story. It was stupid superstition, something to give children nightmares. How could people believe in gods that were foolish and cruel?

Yet, as much as she disliked the story, she found herself recalling it as she moved passed other stalls and tents. Soloh, the one god, created mankind, then sent his two servants, Shefar and Dogu, to teach the fledgeling race themagic of sky and earth. Shefar and Dogu, though, had visions of their own grandeur. Each shared the creative power of Soloh, and each decided to designa race for their own worship. The sky teacher loved beauty, so Shefar's creatures, the Aswer, were lovely, ethereal beings, gifted with the magic secrets of sky power.

Dogu made people who were strong and brutal, able to tame the earth and use it to their advantage. These folk, the Dogutu, were as ugly as Shefar's were beautiful. To assure their dependence, Dogu made them stupid creatures who must rely on their creator's guidance. But neither Dogu nor Shefar had true creative genius. They copied Soloh's design for mankind, so that, beyond a few external modifications, all three races were much the same.

After Shefar repented, Dogu supposedly vowed to destroy mankind by means of interbreeding. No one knew exactly how Shefar's children were going to defeat him, but it was commonly believed that restoration of the world's original design could only come with the destruction of the Dogutu and Aswer.

Bracer tried to find logical origins for the legends of beautiful folk with hair and eyes the color of the rainbow, and of ugly dogmen, who lived in the wildlands to the east. True, such people existed, but she believed they were merely freaks of nature, not the handiwork of demi-gods.

It's all such foolishness, Bracer thought, no wonder I've chosen to distance myself from Bacaria all these years.

As a child, though, Bracer had found the story particularly frightening. After repenting, Shefar set apart some of the aswer. These were given coloring that was not quite so distinctive as rainbow pastels. The new hueswere taken from the things in Dogu's domain that Shefar found loveliest. Aswer with hair of gold, or silver, or copper would not have such trouble traveling among the true people. They were the arrows shot from Shefar's Bow, and through them, the promised restoration would come.

To a little girl with bright copper locks, such a story became very personal. More so because her family claimed that Aswer blood was what made them worthy to become rulers. Even as a child, she wondered why they didn't understand that the story also meant her clan was doomed.

Now, of course, she knew there were no gods. Bracer realized that her ancestors had probably never believed the story, but had used the superstition of others to gain power. Perhaps her cousin Shasteral still used it, financing the puppet shows to subtly reinforce his kingship.

Bracer noticed that she had left the temporary booths of the street market and was now wending her way through the narrow, structure-lined roads of the merchant district. The shops here were no different than the wooden buildings that filled the streets of similar districts in other cities. Most of the shops were not yet open, for it was early in the day. There was little traffic on the packed dirt road, and even less once she turned on to a wide lane with large, stately houses.

Obviously, this was still the finest neighborhood in Vastall. Were she atrue peasant, she might gawk at the stone houses. But Bracer, mind broiling with the coming confrontation, did not look up till she stopped at the large residence which was her destination.

After tying the lead rope to a post and tossing some hay from the wagon onto the ground for the horse, Bracer located the cane she'd stuck into the slats of the cart. She took that now, bending to walk with it, assuming the crooked posture of an aged woman. With her face down and shadowed by her hood, there was less chance of her being recognized.

Practicing her role, she hobbled up to the doorstep, then paused to gather her thoughts. If all went well, she could be on her way out of the city before midday. But getting an old peasant woman in to see the Chancellor of Bacaria would be tricky. She would have to lie skillfully.

Bracer rapped the door with her knuckles, then, remembering her role, lifted her cane and knocked with it. After a moment, a servant opened the door.

The man took one look at her and sneered. "What are you doing at the front door? If you must beg, go round back."

"I bring word of Lord Alonder's eldest son," she told the door steward. The man, pompous beyond his position, sniggered.

She glared at him menacingly, and lifted her walking stick just enough to be sure he noticed her knuckles tightening about it. This was a man whose demeanor said he could be easily intimidated. Bracer did not recognize him, so she was not concerned about revealing a little of her real strength to him if it helped her cause.

"I've come a long way, young man. At least tell your master I'm here."

As the man eyed the stick, a slight tremor overtook him and he backed away. "Wait here," he told her.

Returning moments later, the steward beckoned her with a mixture of caution and annoyance. "All right, old woman. He'll see you."

His arrogant expression faded to one of perfect respect as he turned toward the door of the room that had been used as a sewing room by Alonder's mother. By the change in the man's manner, she knew the chancellor must be inside. The steward bowed, to his master, not to Bracer, then with a wave of his hand, gestured for her to enter.

As she obeyed, Bracer lowered her head with apparent respect, but from below the hood, her eyes took in every aspect of the room. Once Alonder's mother had spent afternoons here sewing while one of her maidservants played a lap harp. Now the room was starkly masculine. Several high-backed chairs were set around a large, drawered table. Much of the chancellor's work was probably completed in this very place.

Alonder sat in one of the chairs, his head bent over a document which was spread out on the table. When, at last, he looked up, Bracer quickly dropped her gaze. What if Lon recognizes me?

"Who are you?" he demanded. His voice was not rude, but it held the impatience of a busy man who did not like interruptions. "What is this information you claim to have?"

"I come from the plains of Jabboth," Bracer tried to speak with the thin crackling voice of an old woman. "It's there that King Rasperd put down the rebellion of Lord Hordavan."

"This is no news to me," Alonder said curtly. "We've heard of Hordavar's fall. You told the steward something about a son of mine."

"Well, you see, after one battle," she hoped her slow choice of words would be perceived as a symptom of age, rather than caution, "I nursed a captain of the Hordavan army. He claimed to be your elder son, dispossessed by the children of your second wife." She stopped, realizing he might take the words as an insult.

"Beg pardon, Sire, but that was how he put it."

"Describe this man," the chancellor instructed.

She looked up quickly. Lon had changed so much over the years. Would I have known him on the street? she wondered. His face was broader, lined and wrinkled, and now partially covered by a neatly-trimmed beard. His beard and once-dark hair were gray. His posture spoke dignity and self-confidnece. Nothing was left of the ambitious yet uncertain man she had once known.

"He was a little taller than you, my lord," she said, realizing too late that Alonder was seated and that a stranger would have no way of guessing his height, "with a similar build." Not wanting him to notice her blunder, she blurted out the rest of her description. "Had dark brown hair and blue eyes."

"Come closer," Lord Alonder commanded. She took a few steps toward him, then stood still as he studied her shadowed face. At last, he asked, "Did this man send you here?"

"No, Lord, but," she found it hard to get the words out, "he died. Had I a son, I'd want to know his fate. I thought it only right to bring you word of his death."

"This way," he urged as he rose from his chair. As she followed him, Bracer noticed how his body had thickened with the years. She was practiced in visually taking stock of a man's fighting potential. He was still strong, and able, in spite of his age. This man was not one who stayed at his desk. He must still be leading the armies in the field.

Alonder led her to a side corridor where the walls were hung with family portraits. He waved his arm out into the hall. "Show me this man."

Carefully, knowing she must act a stranger here, Bracer scrutinized each painting. Many had been added since the last time she'd walked down this hallway, proof of Alonder's continuing prosperity. She did not recognize any of the women and children in the newer portraits, but others she did recall. Seeing those faces brought back sharp and bitter memories.

She moved quickly past them, hoping deep in her heart, that the face she sought would not be here. If she believed in a god, Bracer would have prayed for it to turn out that the dead soldier was not Alonder's son after all.

When she came to a portrait of Alonder, done perhaps twenty years earlier, when he was a young man, she had to stop. There was a small resemblance between the likeness on the wall and the features of the dead man. If Lon had looked thus at thirty-five, so might his son. But Lon had brown eyes, the soldier did not. Hoping the Chancellor did not notice how long she had studied his portrait, Bracer moved on to the next painting.

In it, a fair-haired woman satsurrounded by four youngsters. The three younger children had golden hairmatching their mother's. The older son, standing behind them like a sullen shadow, had his father's dark hair. He also had blue eyes.

Fiction: Son's Blood - Chapter One (Part 1)

Weary travelers queued up in a ragged line at the main gate to Vastall. The wealthy moved around them, given preferential treatment by guards who gave each entrant a cursory examination. Among the dusty throng, clad in the dark, tattered dress of a peasant widow, Bracer waited impatiently.

She was not eager to enter this city again, nor was her mission one of urgency. Still, for good or ill, she would be glad when she could put this visit behind her. The coarse cloth of the dress she wore irritated her skin, the hood she wore to cover her hair made her uncomfortably warm.

I should have found a better disguise, she thought, but she had always been one to grab what was at hand and make the best of it. What irony to be returning to the city with her identity cloaked once more. When she left, the girl who did not yet call herself Bracer had worn boy's clothes. She could no longer recall the name of the man who had saved her from the city, nor what nickname he had given her, thinking her a lad. All Bracer recalled now, thirty-odd years later, was that before perishing in battle, the soldier had set her on the path to becoming a swordswoman.

Bracer shook her head, fighting off the recollections that competed forher attention. She had journeyed here to set memories to rest, not stir up others. Still, looking up at the foreboding stone walls of the city, she knew she could not help but face the past.

"Impressive ain't it," came a voice from her right. She looked over atthe cobbler who had shared the road with her for the last few hours. "First time you've seen Vastall?"

"No," she said, trying to make her voice sound as old as her disguise madeher look. "But it's been a long time." Here was not only a distraction from her memories, but a chance to find out what had happened in the years she'd been away. She asked what she hoped would seem an idle question. "Does Baron Venire still rule the city?"

The cobbler laughed out loud, and so did the man on her other side. He was a tinker, carrying most of his wares strapped to his body so that he rattledwith every move he made. "Made 'imself king, 'e did."

"King?" she repeated. I have kept myself too far from Bacaria, not tohave known something like this.

She looked from one man to the other, wondering what to ask next, but the tinker was quite willing to gossip without prompting.

"Let me tell you how that came about," he offered. "The Baron..."

"King Shasteral 'e calls himself now," added the cobbler.

"Well," the tinker continued, scowling at the shoemaker for the interruption, " your baron decided 'e was the true ruler of all the small localdomains. Said 'is great- grandfather was of the royal line, and that the Great Kingdom should never have been split up. One by one, 'e attacked the other holdings, adding them back."

"The kingdom's larger now than it was in his great- grand's day, though," the cobbler said. "Didn't stop with retaking lands 'e could rightfully claim. Everything from Mountainhold to the coast is 'is now. But it was all done cleverly. Proclaimed 'imself king, then decreed that all the lands originally given to his great-grandfather should declare their allegiance. Any that didn't were pronounced treasonous and the army went in to put down the so-called rebellion."

"Can't say 'e's a bad ruler, though," the tinker commented. "Been kind to'is people, and to the lands 'e conquered. They say 'e has a good man advising'im. Lord Alonder's 'is name. It's 'im who planned the way the armies overthrew the local kingdoms. King Shasteral made 'im chancellor a few years past."

On hearing this, Bracer's eyes fluttered closed momentarily in relief. He still lives.

Though the men continued talking, she did not pay attention to their words. This was the only information she required. Bracer would not even need to ask directions to the chancellor's residence, for she knew Alonder would have remained in the family home.

Now her only obstacle was getting past the guards at the gate without arousing their suspicion. As she and her companions finally neared the entrance to the city, Bracer tightened her grasp on the lead reins of the spindly horse that pulled her rickety cart. She bent her head, breathing deeply and steeling herself for their scrutiny. If the guards probed beneath the hay in her cart, she knew what they would find.

Discovery of the well-worn sword and its ragged scabbard which lay in the bottom of the cart, wrapped in a heavy battle tunic and tied with scarlet bands, would surely raise questions. It would give the guards reason to search her. Though she bore no contraband, they would learn that the widow's rags clothed no aged crone, but a woman whose features did not even show their near-fifty years. The guards would see the lean, hard body of a warrior woman and, in a land where women did not take up the sword, this would cause trouble enough.

Knowing her a soldier, their attention would return to the most suspicious item she was smuggling into the city. Fastened to the scarlet cloth, near the hilt of the sword, was a copper badge of the type worn by officers in the Hordavan army.

She dared only a glance at the guards as she paused before them. That badge was her most cherished possession, but if they found it, they would sieze it and accuse her of being a spy.

"Move on," one guard said before her horse had fully stopped. Gratefully, she continued on. Behind her, she could hear the guards questioning the tinker.

"Where were you born? What city did you visit last?"

Bracer waited till she had turned the corner before relaxing. How would she have answered such questions, especially if they had found the badge?

Though she could truthfully say the copper hexagon was a battle trophy, having served King Rasperd would hardly make a good alibi. He was notoriously power-hungry, and might easily be eager to learn a way to take Bacaria's capitol city.

But the information Bracer sought in Vastall would not aid in toppling a kingdom. All she wanted was an end to her nightmares and the peace of mind that would enable her to be a soldier again.