Author's Note: Yep, dedicated half a year to the Dorothy Dunnett's Lymond Chronicals, and it now owns my soul. Completely. There is no escape. You, too, will eventually succumb.
Mild spoilers for the whole series, and heavy for Pawn in Frankincense. Won't make much sense at all unless you've read the series, and if you're interested, start with the Game of Kings, it will blow your mind. Legit.
Disclaimer: God, I can't even begin to own the brilliance.
Family
Growing up as the oldest (and only son) of Francis Crawford of Lymond could not truly be described as difficult; for Kuzum had friends and a rather large family of cousins and a brood of adoring younger sisters. He had his father, who, although absent for nearly the first decade of his life, expertly educated him in the finer arts of music and language, sharing the job of his physical education with his brother Richard and the man Jerott, when he found time to leave Malta.
He had his dear Fippy, who was not his mother, but loved him and his father dearly. She was lovely, witty and beautiful and could make his father smile like no one else. Sometimes Kuzum was jealous that her blood ran within her daughters and not him, for when his father looked at the gaggle of brown and blonde hair, his eyes softened and the lines around his mouth relaxed.
Kuzum had his grandmother, Sybilla, as frail as the last autumn leaf clinging to a skeletal tree, her body and voice all but gone, but still retaining a wild wit that matched her son's and grandson's on occasion. And then of course, his sweet Kate, who wasn't that much older than his own father, who always had a smudge of something from the kitchen on her dress; the loose wisps of brown hair, peeking from her bonnet which she had passed on to Philippa. With her, when he could be spared from St. Mary's was the man Adam, kind with an artistic eye, a thin scar snaking across his face and an old limp, who went ridding with him around Flaw Valleys and telling him old stories about Russia and France.
He had Archie, old and wrinkly, who looked after his family with a diligence and patience that went beyond that of a saint's.
In the graveyard at Midculter was a fresh grave, the name 'Marthe Crawford' carved delicately into the stone. Kuzum didn't know who she was but he found sitting near her when he wanted solitude comforting. He sometimes wondered if she could have explained the inexplicable terrors.
The ones that crept up on him the first time when he had wandered into his uncle's bedroom, at the young age of nine, and found a beautifully carved chessboard, laid out with white and dark pieces. He couldn't explain why, but a shiver had run down his back and a cold, hard voice echoed in the recesses of his mind with cruel orders. Later, when he and his small family returned to their home at Lymond, he waken up in a cold sweat, shivering and griped by images of shadowy figures opposing him and black and white squares under his feet. He could still feel, reverberating within his body, the crying and the overwhelming terror that was not his own.
Recounting the fearful event the next morning, his father's face turned ashen, and then stony. Philippa looked at him with such pain that Kuzum fell silent and then weakly mentioned that he liked the eggs. In the afternoon of that memorable day, as he curled unhappily in a pile of hay in the barn, his father's tale shadow fell across him. Forgoing the careful need of the velvet and satin he wore, Francis Crawford of Lymond, long time mercenary and brilliant scholar buckled to sit beside him in the musty hay.
"Kuzum," he said gently, "my dear boy, no need for the long face mon chridh. You have done no more wrong than Dido did to lose the company of Aeneas," He smiled a little as Kuzum squirmed closer to the man he knew as his father. The two sat in silence, Kuzum snuffling softly in the hay and Lymond examining his hands.
At last, "Sir, I didn't mean to offend you this morning."
"I know, Khaireddin, and you didn't. Le mal preveu ne donne ps un grand coup, and somehow I failed to foresee such an occurrence. My mistake, of course, for you are such a bright boy." In a rare act, he had reached out to gently ruffle his son's hair, while Kuzum, embarrassed by the praise had taken a turn to stare at his hands. "I want you to know," Lymond continued, "that what happened this morning matters not at all, beyond the fact that you have learned that I have come to dislike chess over the years, for whatever reasons that should not bother you for the time being.
"My past is not a pleasant thing. Many things I have done cannot be forgiven, but you should know, no matter what in your life you may hear, I care for you deeply. You are my son, Khaireddin, I'd like you to remember that."
"I will, sir." Kuzum had answered softly, glowingly at being addressed in such a way by the man who had no equal.
The terrors in the night continued, but he suffered them alone. It was not his place to impose his fears on his father or Philippa; she had a baby and Lymond had St Mary's. The picture in his mind was sometimes clear, sometimes hazy, but there was always the terrible fear and helpless voice of a child he knew must be dead. Sometimes a young girl stood near him, she looked like his sister, Christian, who looked, said his father, just like her mother.
Sometimes, across the sea of black and white, he made out the figure of a man, golden hair and blue eyes, and unsmiling mouth, who he knew must be his father.
When, in time, his father was finally able to tell the story of a dark night in Turkey, where he had played a game for the death of a man and the life of two children, Kuzum could only wonder if his father had made the right choice. He was growing taller now, taller then his father had ever been, instead of the slender fingers of Lymond, he had strong, thick hands.