'Well, are you?' asked Soth.
Another extended period of silence.
Korinne let out a sigh. 'No.'
Soth let out a long sigh of his own. He was disappointed, especially because he knew it had been entirely his own fault. He had told her not to mention word of a child until she knew for certain and now he had been the one to ask the question, destroying what should have been a wonderful moment between them.
Korinne rolled onto her side on the bed and began to weep softly.
Soth didn't know what to do. He had slain ogres, defeated whole armies, and performed a hundred other heroic deeds, but here and now he found himself wishing he were somewhere else, somewhere far away.
He was also angered by her inability to bear him a child, but instinctively knew that harsh words had no place in the room at this particular moment.
Korinne's weeping had grown into open sobs.
After another moment's hesitation, Soth crawled onto the bed and placed a comforting hand on Korinne's shoulder.
It did nothing to staunch her cries, but it still felt as if it were the right thing to do. He placed an arm around her and held her close.
That night after supper, Soth excused himself from the table on the pretense of wanting to stretch his legs and reacquaint himself with the keep.
After leaving the dining hall, he made a series of twists and turns that brought him to the maids' quarters where Isolde was now staying. He checked in the larger chambers but found the room to be empty except for eight neatly prepared beds, each with its own trundle. He checked a few of the adjoining rooms and finally heard soft music coming from one of the rooms down the hall. He tracked the sound until he found Isolde in the music room playing a harp.
Soth looked up and down the hallway, then stepped into the room, leaving the door behind him slightly ajar so as to not to make any noise that would disrupt Isolde's sweet, sweet music.
He sat down on a stool to her right and listened.
Almost at once he recognized the tune as 'The Silver
Moon's Passing,' an elven song of mourning. As he listened he could almost hear the emotions in the notes, could almost picture the swaying grasslands of the plains, the love of a young man, and the loss felt by his young bride upon his death.
She finished playing the song without realizing that Soth was in the room. When the last note faded Soth began clapping.
Isolde turned, startled to find him there.
'That was beautiful,' he said.
'I didn't realize I had an audience.'
'Would it have mattered?'
'No, I suppose not.'
'You play very well.'
She almost blushed at the compliment. 'Thank you, milord. Istvan said I could keep his harp as long as I liked.'
'From the way he plays the instrument, I wouldn't be surprised if he were glad to be rid of it.'
Isolde laughed, giving Soth reason to smile. Her face was so bright, so alive.
There was a lengthy pause between them. Finally Isolde said, 'But you didn't come here to hear me play the harp now did you?'
'No.'
She looked at him curiously. 'Why did you come here?'
Soth thought about it, and realized he didn't have a good answer to the question. Why did I come here? he wondered. 'I wanted to make sure you were all right.' A pause. 'And perhaps I need someone to talk to.'
'Talk? About what?'
Again Soth hesitated. 'Family matters.'
'I would think your wife would be the best one with which to discuss such things.'
'Perhaps, but what if she is the topic to be discussed?' 'I see,' said
Isolde, her eyes darting somewhat nervously.
'But shouldn't you speak of such things to one who is closer to you? A family member, perhaps even Istvan?'
'No, I couldn't. This is something that is best discussed with someone from outside of Dargaard Keep.
Someone… like yourself.' This was true. If he let it be known to others close to him that Korinne was unable to conceive, news of it would sweep through the keep in a matter of days, and across Solamnia in mere weeks. For some reason, he instinctively knew that Isolde would speak to no one about the matter, that his secrets would be her secrets.
'All right, then,' she said warmly. 'Talk to me.'
Soth began explaining how, despite all their efforts, he and Korinne had been unable to produce a child. Then he began talking of the pain and disappointment he felt each time she told him of their failure, not just for himself but for her as well. He told her too, how it was beginning to affect their relationship.
Isolde listened in silence, providing him with little response other than a slight nod of her head, or an arch of her brow.
The more he spoke, the more Soth realized that perhaps he had come here looking for someone to talk to. He was indeed feeling better, his frustration over the matter somewhat lessened by the mere act of telling someone else about the problem.
And it was a problem.
He was Loren Soth, Knight of the Rose, Master of Dargaard Keep and Lord of Knightlund. He should be the father of many, many distinguished
Knights of Solamnia.
The Soth family name was a great one with a hallowed history and a grand future, but if he failed to produce even a single heir, the Soth name would die along with him. For a Knight of Solamnia, it was a problem greater than any that could be created by an opponent on a battlefield.
And in fact, many times Soth had wished this problem could be dealt with by the sword. But alas, it could not. This was a problem that could be remedied only by the good graces of Paladine, or the benevolence of Mishakal.
'Take these up to the maids' chambers,' said the head laundress, a large, stout woman with arms as thick as those of some men. 'And these go to the Lord's chambers.'
The maid chewed her bottom lip to stop herself from saying unkind words to the laundress. Reminding her not to mix up the stacks was an insult to her intelligence because there was little chance that anyone could ever mistake the two. The stack which had grayed slightly and had been repaired by numerous patches was obviously for the maids' chambers while the newer, whiter linens were surely reserved for the lord and lady of the keep. Even a child could tell the two apart.
Mirrel Martlin, had been a maid in Dargaard Keep for the past year and a half and she was growing tired of being a maid in every sense of the word. While she didn't mind doing the work that was required of her-she was a maid after all-she knew she was destined for better things. Many nights she dreamed of being one of milady's personal maids, or Mishakal be praised, a lady-in-waiting.
When she told others of her hopes and aspirations, they simply dismissed them as being the wild fantasies of a young girl. But she remained undaunted by this, knowing in her heart that these aspirations were not fantasies, but dreams. Dreams, she knew, sometimes came true.
Maybe she would be the lucky one.
'Now don't get them confused,' said the laundress, already moving onto another matter.
Again Mirrel chewed her bottom lip. 'No ma'am.'
The laundress didn't answer.
