K. Taylor: The Shadow's heir

She knew what it meant. She had always known what it would mean. In a way, she had been waiting for it her entire life. But nothing could have prepared her for it. And nothing could have dulled the shock. But what possibly could have?

She sat on her stool by the front door of their house, slowly whittling a piece of wood. It had been much larger when she had started, but by now it resembled a very thin carrot. Curled wood shavings were piled up between her feet. Some had caught on the rough wool of her dress, but she couldn’t summon up the energy or interest to brush them off.

She couldn’t keep her attention on her knife, either; she let it slide away toward the sky and stared vacantly at the white clouds drifting over it. It would be another fine day tomorrow.

The knife slipped, and she started at the sudden blossoming of pain in her hand. It woke her from her reverie, and she put the knife down and hastily covered the cut with the edge of her skirt.

As if the pain were a kind of release, she let go of her hand and started to cry.

The tears didn’t last long. She fiercely wiped them away on her sleeve and bit back her sobs until they left her shuddering with them before they died away. The anger she felt toward herself gave her strength, and she stuffed her knife into her belt and strode over to the rain barrel.

The cold water made her feel a little better. She splashed it over her face until her fringe was dripping and took several deep breaths. As the water’s surface stilled again, she looked down into it and saw her own faint reflection rippling there.

Pale skin, with a scatter of freckles over a pointed nose. Her eyes were blue, but above them her eyebrows were jet-black, and the long, curly hair she tried to keep tied back and covered was black as well.

She stared at it and shuddered again. Gryphus help me, if only I could cut it all off. If I could only hide it!

She had tried, many many times. She had tried dye, but there was no dye that could overpower pure black. Cutting it short only made her look like a freak. . more of a freak. And covering it still didn’t hide the other signs. The signs on the outside, or the inside.

She let out a sudden, wild scream, and punched the water, shattering her reflection. The anger bubbled inside her as she turned away, and she wanted to scream again, or hit something else, but she knew it wouldn’t help anything.

No point to anything, said the cold, rational side of her mind. Never was, never will be.

But this was her fault. Always had been.

Stop it. He needs you.

The voice was right. She straightened up, forcing herself to breathe deeply, and went inside.

Her father was there, hunched in his favourite chair by the fire. For a moment she thought he was asleep, but then he stirred and coughed.

“Laela. C’mere.”

She went to him. “Dad, how’re yeh feelin’?”

He peered at her. “Like shit. Where’ve yeh been?”

“Just outside, Dad. Not far.”

“Yeh know y’ain’t s’posed t’go out there, girl,” he reminded her. “Temptin’ fate ain’t what yeh need t’be doin’ just now.”

Laela looked away. “Well, I won’t have much t’worry about there soon, will I? May as well get used to it, right?”

Her father sighed. “Laela, we ain’t sure this is it. Yeh can’t be sayin’ that now.”

Laela softened and touched his hand. “But yeh know it is, Dad. Even if yeh ain’t ready t’say it out loud yet.”

He coughed again, and shivered. “I never was much of an honest man, Laela. Yeh know that.”

She managed a smile. “Yeah, I know. Yeh won’t tell me my mother’s name, will yeh? Or his name, either.”

Her father looked away. “Yeh know my name, girl. Branton Redguard, that’s yer dad’s name.”

Laela straightened up impatiently. “Oh for the gods’ sakes, stop it! Yeh know I ain’t buyin’ that, Dad, I ain’t bought it for years! I love yeh, but yeh ain’t my father, an’ you know it, an’ I know it. My mother wasn’t no Northerner, an’ neither are you. So if she wasn’t, my dad was, an’ he ain’t you.”

Bran rose slightly in his chair. “An’ who raised yeh, Laela?” he snapped. “Eh? Tell me that. Who raised yeh? Who loved yeh? Who kept yeh safe all this time?”

Laela backed off. “You did, Dad, but that ain’t what we’re talkin’ about. I’m talkin’ about my other father. The one who bedded my mother. The one whose blood’s in me. I love yeh, Dad, an’ I always have, but yeh ain’t my father by blood.”

He subsided again, suddenly exhausted. “An’ so what if I ain’t? What’s it matter? Yeh mother’s gone, Laela, an’ so’s yeh father.”

Laela stepped closer, suddenly excited despite herself. This was the most he had ever said about her father. “So he’s dead?”

Bran rubbed a hand over his face. “Bin dead nearly twenty years.”

“Are yeh sure?”

He looked her in the eye. “I saw him die, understand?”

“How did he die?” Laela asked quietly.

“He fell to his death,” said Bran. “Tryin’ to escape from. . us.”

“Us? Who’s us? Yeh mean. . Dad, did you kill him?”

“I was a guard captain. Yer father escaped from prison, an’ we were chasin’ him. We had him cornered, an’ I told him to surrender. It was right at the edge of a high platform, at the top of a mountain. He gave up, but he fell before I could pull him back. That’s how he died. End of story.”

“What was his name?” said Laela.

Bran squinted. “Can’t remember any more.”

“But how did he meet my mother?” Laela persisted. “Why would she bed a Northerner? He didn’t. .? Did he. .? Was that why he was in prison, Dad?”

Bran sat back and closed his eyes. “I dunno that much about it either way, but yer father was a criminal.”

Laela looked away. “So that’s how it happened.”

Bran kept his eyes shut. “That’s how it happened, girl. Yer parents are gone, an’ there’s no point dwellin’ on that. I’m yer family. Now. . I’m tired, an’ I want t’sleep. Could yeh help me t’bed?”

“Yeah, I’ll do it. ’Course I’ll do it.”

Laela helped her adoptive father to his bed, supporting him with her arm around his waist while her mind reeled.

So that was it. That was all it was. The secret Bran had kept for so long was. . nothing. No terrible secrets, no shocking heritage, no dramatic revelation. Her mother was a Southern girl who had been raped by a Northern criminal. And Bran had told her the story so matter-of-factly, so briefly. Just as if it wasn’t anything very important at all.

Later, when he was asleep, she sat in his chair by the fire and poked at the ashes.

In all her life, Bran was the only family she had ever known, and her only friend, too. Nobody else wanted to know her. When she was small, other children had been happy enough to play with her, but as they grew older, things changed. The opinions of parents moved on to their children, and suddenly play turned to bullying. Suddenly, she found herself learning new words. New meanings.

Blackrobe. Half-breed. Freak. Darkwoman.

That was when she truly began to understand.

Now her thoughts turned toward her father, as she looked at her lap and the long, thin fingers he had given her.

“Bastard,” she muttered aloud. “Gods-damned evil bastard. Yeh raped my mother. Yeh turned me into this. Yeh made me a gods-damned half-breed. I swear by Gryphus’ flames, if yeh weren’t dead, I’d find yeh an’ do it with me own hands.”