Gossip and scandalous rumour was my father's stock in trade. An Innkeeper
without a story or two involving the local residents is an innkeeper with
an empty common room. I knew this. Hell I was training to be an innkeeper
myself. More than once I'd been the one sharing some juicy titbit or other
with my father.
But somehow this was different. I was enraged. That my father could impugn the honour and reputation (although for all I knew he could have been a whoremonger or a wastrel) of the magnificent Magician was not only outrageous it was tantamount to blasphemy.
Without questioning why I was defending a man I'd never met I raised my fists to strike my father. Who by now was staring at me open-mouthed, having expected a ribald comment or two in return. To his credit my father made no move to block or return the blow. Although I cannot say for certain whether this was self-possession on his part or just outright shock.
As I moved to strike him hard across his jaw, my fist suddenly hit a solid barrier about 6 inches or so short of its intended target. With a yelp I dropped my bruised knuckles back to my waist.
A hand gripped my shoulder from behind and I turned to find myself looking into the eyes of the wizard Bryauel. Up close the eyes were dark, the cornea almost black as the pupil. Although there was undoubtedly great power behind those eyes, I sensed something else too. There was a haunted look to them. A look that said to me that this man had seen, in his life, more than he had ever wished to.
"I won't be standing for anything of that sort young master" he spoke. "Certainly not today".
I was speechless. The shock of what I had been about to do had just hit me like a sledgehammer and then to compound the blow, the man I had been defending was rebuking me.
"I'm sorry sir." I managed to stammer out. Bryauel's fingers were starting to hurt my shoulder and he showed no sign of relinquishing his grip.
"And am I right in thinking that this man is your own father?"
Griffins live in great numbers in the mountains surrounding the Commonlands and if one had swooped down and carried me off at that moment I think I would have wept with gratitude.
"He is, sir." I admitted. Tears now rolling down my cheeks. Partially from the pain in my knuckles and my shoulder, but mainly from the shame of what I was about to do. I couldn't bring myself to look at my father. I had been about to strike the man who raised me. The man who had played with me and fed me and soothed me in the night. The man who was training me to follow in his footsteps and would bequeath me the inn he cherished upon his death.
But somehow this was different. I was enraged. That my father could impugn the honour and reputation (although for all I knew he could have been a whoremonger or a wastrel) of the magnificent Magician was not only outrageous it was tantamount to blasphemy.
Without questioning why I was defending a man I'd never met I raised my fists to strike my father. Who by now was staring at me open-mouthed, having expected a ribald comment or two in return. To his credit my father made no move to block or return the blow. Although I cannot say for certain whether this was self-possession on his part or just outright shock.
As I moved to strike him hard across his jaw, my fist suddenly hit a solid barrier about 6 inches or so short of its intended target. With a yelp I dropped my bruised knuckles back to my waist.
A hand gripped my shoulder from behind and I turned to find myself looking into the eyes of the wizard Bryauel. Up close the eyes were dark, the cornea almost black as the pupil. Although there was undoubtedly great power behind those eyes, I sensed something else too. There was a haunted look to them. A look that said to me that this man had seen, in his life, more than he had ever wished to.
"I won't be standing for anything of that sort young master" he spoke. "Certainly not today".
I was speechless. The shock of what I had been about to do had just hit me like a sledgehammer and then to compound the blow, the man I had been defending was rebuking me.
"I'm sorry sir." I managed to stammer out. Bryauel's fingers were starting to hurt my shoulder and he showed no sign of relinquishing his grip.
"And am I right in thinking that this man is your own father?"
Griffins live in great numbers in the mountains surrounding the Commonlands and if one had swooped down and carried me off at that moment I think I would have wept with gratitude.
"He is, sir." I admitted. Tears now rolling down my cheeks. Partially from the pain in my knuckles and my shoulder, but mainly from the shame of what I was about to do. I couldn't bring myself to look at my father. I had been about to strike the man who raised me. The man who had played with me and fed me and soothed me in the night. The man who was training me to follow in his footsteps and would bequeath me the inn he cherished upon his death.