And then she felt something very curious. It was warm air, wafting in her direction. On such a cold night, it was hard for her to guess from whence such warmth might be originating. But if there was a heat source anywhere to be had, then she was quite determined that it should serve her as well as anyone else. The possibility did not escape her that it might be a fire lit by the exact type of criminal, robber, or highway bandit that caused her such concern, but at that moment she was not especially inclined to be concerned about anything other than avoiding freezing to death.

She made her way through the Elderwoods, following the heat source, blowing into her palms to try and get some bit of warmth into her hands, since her threadbare gloves were affording her almost no protection at all. There was a clearing just ahead of her, and what she saw astounded her.

A ma.s.sive, birdlike creature was enveloped in flames.

She had never seen anything like it, although at first she fancied she was witnessing the pitiless slaying of a roc or some other creature. She looked around to try and spot whatever vicious hunters might have brought the poor animal to such straits. But slowly she came to realize that she was, in fact, the only human being in the area. She also realized that the creature was being immolated, not from without, but from within. The creature itself generated the flames consuming it, from deep within its own fiery heart. Nor was the creature crying out in any way, indicating that there was no pain involved. Indeed, it appeared to accept its fate with quiet, dignified resignation.

Within moments, the creature had been reduced to a huge pile of ashes. Even at that point, she didn't fully comprehend what it was that she was seeing. The fact was, she was concerned only about her own chill, and the growling of her belly reminded her that she had not eaten in some time. She took a step toward the pile of ashes in a vague sort of hope that there might be bits or parts of the bird-freshly cooked, of course-upon which she could dine.

Before she got anywhere near the ashes, however, they began to stir. It was a subtle movement, but enough to fully capture her attention and startle her out of her wits. She bolted back to relatively safe cover behind the trees and watched with goggle-eyed amazement as the ashes suddenly scattered to the wind, thus revealing a bird that was clearly in the image of the one which had just died. At first she thought that somehow the creature had survived, but quickly she realized that it was impossible. This new animal was utterly unscarred by any flame. Not a feather was so much as lightly scorched.

That was when she realized, finally, what she was seeing.

The phoenix stretched its wings to their full span, which my mother claimed was as wide as ten men. Its head pitched back and it let rip to the sky a screech so earsplitting, Madelyne maintained that forever after she had a slight ringing in her ears. Then the phoenix flapped its mighty wings, beating the ashes into a great cloud of soot, before leaping skyward with a final resounding caw and disappearing into the night sky.

My mother took this as a sign. An omen if you will. For a person does not witness one of the rarest occurrences in all of nature and un-nature and not be changed by such a moment. There are those who believe, for instance, that to view a shooting star is to be forewarned of some coming great birth or death. How much greater significance, then, was it to be spectator at an event of such rarity that it was mythic? By seeing the death and rebirth of the phoenix, by being guided there via destiny's mischievous hand, my mother became convinced that she was meant for a great destiny as well. Since death and birth were involved, she was quite certain that it had something to do with one, or both, of those processes.

I can't blame her, I suppose. She was alone, and scared, and really rather young. It was a foolish att.i.tude for her to have, but it helped get her through the night.

The next morning, reinvigorated and convinced that she would have a great destiny if only she was willing to go out and find it, Madelyne set out to make something of herself. She took the main roads, no longer fearing highwaymen. Her reasoning was that whatever greatness she was intended for, it was certainly not to be accosted by robbers and then killed when she was unable to provide them with any money. Part of me shudders at the thought of such misplaced confidence. On the other hand, she traveled in that manner for a week without being molested or hara.s.sed in any way by anyone, so perhaps Madelyne did indeed know what she was about.

After a lengthy journey, she entered the outlying borders of the state of Isteria. King Rufus DeVane, who found himself beset by several neighboring chieftains who were would-be monarchs, governed Isteria at that time. DeVane was generally considered to be a weak ruler at best, although he tried as hard as he could to rule the land with an iron hand. Of those who challenged his rule, his major compet.i.tor was one Runcible the Crafty (a name that he himself had fostered and seemed rather pleased to maintain). Runcible was known as a man of few words, preferring to let his actions talk for him. When he did speak, it was of an idealized realm in which his followers-his knights, as he would make them-would fight on behalf of justice and tolerance, introducing a new golden age to the land.

All this talk was well and good, and of little interest to the peasants who watched the warfare go on year after year, and cared not a whit for politics. The odds were that whatever happened in the great castles of the land, and whoever it was who might be in charge, the average citizen would continue his life unchanged once all the shouting was done.

Finally, in her wanderings, Madelyne came upon a place of business known as Stroker's Inn, which was-unsurprisingly-owned and operated by a gentleman named Stroker.

Perhaps "gentleman" is not exactly the right word. "Brute" might be more on target, as would "thug," "b.a.s.t.a.r.d," and "b.l.o.o.d.y b.a.s.t.a.r.d." Stroker was ma.s.sively built, with thighs the size of ham hocks and a mind as sharp as . . . well . . . ham hocks. Deucedly two-faced, Stroker was generally attentive and caring to his customers, and a total cretin when it came to his staff. However, much to Madelyne's "luck" (if such a word can be applied to the circ.u.mstance), Stroker was in need of help since another serving wench of his had been inconsiderate enough to die of food poisoning . . . generated, naturally, by Stroker's kitchen, although he denied it utterly.

So when Madelyne came to him, looking for a place to stay and for gainful employment, Stroker was happy to accommodate her. She knew from his loutish jaw, his unshaven face, his squinting left eye, his multiple chins, and the raspy cough which he had had for years (which I could only hope signaled the presence of some lethal illness)-she knew from all this that he was going to be a problem.

Which, of course, he was.

Before you get the wrong idea, no: Stroker didn't endeavor to have his way with her. You'd have thought he was exactly the type who would engage in such practices, but the opposite was true. He had no desire for or interest in a.s.sailing the questionable virtue of any of the women in his employ. He liked to claim that he was not interested in taking any risks of either contracting diseases or putting more brats into the world. A few suggested under their breaths, and far from his hearing, that perhaps he preferred his meat from the other side of the cow. In retrospect, knowing what I know of him and recalling his overall brutality and nastiness, my suspicion is that he simply wasn't capable. Couldn't quite get his sword out of the sheath, as they say. It would certainly explain his overall frustration with women in general. To have something so near and yet so far, the distance measured by . . . inches . . .

I think I've made my point.

But Stroker was hard on my mother in other ways. Harder than he was on the other girls, because they simply worked there, but had somewhere else to go when their workday was done. Husbands or parents, or even a simple hovel of their own. But not Madelyne, not my mother. She had none to care for her and nowhere to go. So Stroker gave her a small room that no one ever used because it was so far from the hearth that it was beyond freezing much of the time, even in the summer. My mother, though, was a veteran of nights in the forest, and so such extremes of temperature didn't daunt her. At least she could curl up upon a mattress, thin and pathetic as it might be, and she didn't have to worry about rain or snow upon her head. It was still a consideration since the roof leaked, but she was able to position herself so that none of it fell upon her.

Stroker endeavored to "push" my mother in other directions as well during her stay there. Particularly he urged her to provide . . ."company" . . . for the men who came by, for my mother was a comely wench and men asked after her. But she declined, politely but firmly. Stroker was the sort of brute who was perfectly capable of forcing her to bend to his will, but first and foremost he was concerned about his customers, and he was worried that an unwilling woman could claw up a patron's face, or worse, slip a knife between his ribs. So he did nothing to press the matter. She thought he'd forgotten about it. Actually, he was simply biding his time.

So Madelyne remained there, having found her niche, and becoming something of a fixture at the bar and inn. One day was pretty much like the next.

That is not to say that nothing changed in Isteria. King DeVane, as many suspected would happen, was forced out. Runcible came into power and, displaying mercy, exiled the fallen DeVane. Runcible's mercy was greeted with anger from DeVane, who-as he pa.s.sed into banishment-swore a terrible oath that he would avenge himself upon Runcible one day. From what I heard, he swore even greater oaths a week later when someone, or perhaps a band of someones, went to his place of exile, and threw him bodily into a mile-deep canyon. Thus died DeVane, who might be alive today and perhaps even back in power somehow, if he'd only kept his big mouth shut at what could only be considered an inopportune time.

King Runcible sent royal proclamations far and wide, speaking of the new era that was to exist under his reign. The proclamations meant little to much of the populace, which was understandable considering most of them couldn't read the d.a.m.ned things. Those who could shrugged a bit and said that they would have to see it to believe it.

One has to credit Runcible's knights. They made a superb show of it. Jousts and open functions were held to which all inhabitants of the realm were invited, and they marveled at the knights' strength and power. But such warfare was for display only. Actual disputes had to be settled by ways other than trial by combat, which had been the method of choice. Instead, Runcible himself became a prime adjudicator, listening thoughtfully to disputes that were brought before him, saying little other than asking a few prodding questions, and then returning with a reasoned and fair decision. Runcible and his knights were quite well thought of in our little piece of the world.

And Madelyne was no less adoring of knights than she had ever been. She would speak of them constantly, in wide-eyed and impressed tones. Stroker kept saying that he found her incessant speculations tiresome, but she gave it no mind. Then, all unexpectedly, matters came to a head.

It was a dark and stormy night.

There had been a good deal of talk around the realm, far more than usual, about the activities of Runcible and his knights. There had been talk of a convocation of dragons which had been razing some of the eastern territories, although it had been unclear as to whether they were acting independently, or were in the employ of some individual-royalty or sorcerous, it was open to much dispute. But what everyone knew for certain was that Runcible's men had ridden out in force, and although some heavy casualties had been sustained, they had managed to beat back the threat.

Indeed, that evening at Stroker's, the storminess of the night was being attributed by some to the wrath of the Dragon G.o.d. Various customers, huddled in against the weather's ferocity, suggested that the hard rain falling was actually the Dragon G.o.d's tears, and the lightning cracking through the sky was the flashing of his eyes. Others ventured a related theory, that the battle between good and evil had been raised from the physical to the spiritual plane, and what was being seen on earth was nothing less than a full-scale war between order and chaos. There was also one poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d who attributed lightning and thunder to superheated particles too small for the eye to detect. He was driven out into the storm for his blasphemy and was promptly struck and killed by lightning, which caused a good laugh amongst the customers at Stroker's that evening.

Abruptly the door burst open, and in clanked about half a dozen knights in armor. It was, I am told, an impressive sight. They were huge, weathered men, but surprisingly seemed none the worse for wear. That was something of an accomplishment considering how foul the conditions were outside. There was a seventh man as well, although he was not armored but rather heavily cloaked . . . perhaps a druid, my mother would later speculate, or a retainer, or a priest or a squire, or even a magic user . . . a weaver, as they were called. Weavers didn't happen to wander into the area of Stroker's all that often. They tended to stick to the routes where the heavier thread lines were, and Stroker's was off the main thread paths. That was by design rather than happenstance. Stroker didn't particularly like weavers, and he'd carefully had the area sounded to make certain it was a weak junction for threads (or "ley lines," as some others called them). Weavers tended to show up, eat your food, drink your mead, then tap into the threads and convince you that they had paid you for everything. This was not grief that Stroker needed.

For a moment, no one said anything. Then everyone (except the knights) jumped slightly as the thunder rumbled so loudly that it seemed to have taken up residence within the inn itself. Stroker was clearly unsure whether the knights meant trouble or not. He came halfway around the bar and stood there, leaving the broadsword that he kept behind the bar for trouble within easy reach. Although he must have been a bit concerned, for he was outnumbered and not in a position to display a true show of force.

It did not, however, matter in the end. One of the knights-presumably the one of highest rank-took a step forward, his armor glistening in the candlelight. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly soft. "We seek a private room so that we may take food and drink and entertain ourselves in relative quiet, away from prying eyes. And we wish to have our own serving girl, who will attend to all our needs."

The fact that the knights had not immediately torn the place apart apparently emboldened Stroker, who coughed a couple of times loudly and then said, "And I am to provide this for you out of the goodness of my heart?"

The knight reached into the folds of his cape and withdrew a small bag. He balanced it in his palm for a moment, as if weighing and considering the contents, and then he tossed it to Stroker in a casual underhand manner. Stroker caught it and glanced inside. Apparently there were enough gold coins within to satisfy even his avarice.

"That should suffice to obtain the services we requested," said the knight, and after a pause he added, "with funds left over to buy a round of drinks for everyone in this fine establishment."

This elicited a salutary cheer from the other patrons. There is no great trick to commanding the loyalty of a group of drunkards. Buy them drinks, and they're yours.

Now, it should be noted that during all of this Madelyne was watching from the corner, enraptured. She had seen but one knight in her life, and from what she told me, he could not begin to compare in magnificence to even the least of this group of soldiers who had wandered into her place of business. Unconsciously she began fiddling with her hair, straightening her potato sack of a skirt. Stroker must have noticed her fussing, because he turned to her and called her over. She came to him immediately.

"You belong to those gentlemen for the evening," growled Stroker, "and will attend to all their needs. Take them to . . ." He appeared to consider options, and then said, " . . . the Majestic Suite." He had raised his voice a bit when he said it so that the knights would hear. Most of them didn't seem to care. The one who had been doing the talking tossed off a small salute.

She stared at him blankly. "The what?"

With an irritated nod of his head, he said, "The room in the back. You know."

She did indeed know the room in the back. It was hard for there to be any confusion, considering that there was only one room there. But it had never been called Majestic or anything else other than the back room. Madelyne, in many ways, was still rather naive-at least until that night's events were over-and she didn't grasp that Stroker might be posturing for the benefit of the knights. So she mentally shrugged and guided the knights to the back room. Their apparent leader glanced around with an air of vague indifference and simply said, "This will do."

There was a long table down the middle, with benches on either side. The knights took positions on the benches and Madelyne proceeded to serve them. The knights did not address her directly, but instead talked among themselves in low, cautious tones. Madelyne suspected that they were discussing affairs of state, secret matters that were meant for the ears of knights and kings and none other. She made sure to keep the drink flowing, biting back her natural inquisitiveness and instead being content to bask in their presence.

Minutes became hours. The storm had continued unabated, prompting a number of the customers to refrain from going outside. Consequently they had simply fallen asleep in their seats or at their tables, some of them with their drinks in hand. Madelyne moved among the snoring crowd, maneuvering effortlessly with more mugs of mead for the knights in the back room. The only other individual remaining awake at that point was Stroker. Nothing seemed to faze him.

When Madelyne walked into the back room with the drinks, she felt a little trill of warning down the back of her neck. The knights were looking at her in a way that they hadn't before. Indeed, earlier it had seemed as if they were barely noticing her presence, beyond the fact that she was the means by which they acquired more drink. But now they were studying her, appraising her, and apparently liking what they were seeing.

My mother, the poor thing, was flattered. She ignored the little buzz of alarm and instead chose to be pleased that she was garnering that sort of attention from such n.o.ble personages.

She placed the mugs down in front of each of them, thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk, just as she had repeatedly during the many hours prior to that. In those cases, their hands had immediately wrapped around the handles as if afraid that someone would burst in and steal their beverages. This time, no one did so. They didn't appear to notice the drinks were there. Their concentration remained upon her. just as she had repeatedly during the many hours prior to that. In those cases, their hands had immediately wrapped around the handles as if afraid that someone would burst in and steal their beverages. This time, no one did so. They didn't appear to notice the drinks were there. Their concentration remained upon her.

The fact that she was so much the center of attention actually emboldened her, when it should have warned her to get the h.e.l.l out of the room . . . not that it likely would have made a difference. "Gentlemen . . . I know none of your names," she said, imagining that she sounded rather saucy. "Here I've been serving you all this time, and we haven't been properly introduced. I know you not . . . nor do you know me."

"We don't need to," said another one of the knights.

"Oh." She wasn't quite certain what else to say in such a circ.u.mstance, with a reply that seemed so harsh. "Well . . ." She curtsied slightly and then said, "If you will be needing anything else, my name is-"

She didn't get the chance to tell them.

One of them was on his feet, moving so quickly that she never actually saw him rise. He clamped a hand over her mouth, cutting off her sentence, and then he pushed her roughly onto the table. She cried out in surprise and confusion, but since her mouth was covered her cries were m.u.f.fled.

She heard a tearing of cloth, and was so disconnected from the moment that she didn't fully realize, until the chill air washed over her, that her dress was being torn from her. Pieces of metal were clanking to the floor as several of the knights were divesting themselves of their armor. "Hold her," growled one of them.

The thunder blasted, and the room seemed to light up with lightning, and then of course even the infinitely naive Madelyne understood what was to happen. She managed to get her teeth around the fingers of the knight who was muting her, and she sank her incisors deep into his flesh. He let out a yelp, reflexively loosening his grip, and then Madelyne cried out at the top of her lungs. With perfect timing, thunder smashed once more, covering her cries so that none heard her.

That was, at least, what she believed. I think it perfectly likely that Stroker did indeed hear her cry out in fear and terror, but simply chose to do nothing. Why should he have? He had no particular love for Madelyne, and very great love for money. If she needed to be sacrificed upon the altar of his greed, then he would gladly twist the knife himself.

The ironic thing is, it's not as if my mother was a virgin, a delicate flower, or a prude. She worshipped the knights. They were like unto G.o.ds to her. They could easily, I suspect, have had their way with her if they had merely plied her with a drink or two and a few seductive words. I can't say she would willingly have taken on the lot of them . . . but I wouldn't have been surprised. But these were violent men, these knights. They were b.l.o.o.d.y b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, is what they were. Warriors who had no grasp of niceties and sweetness. Oh, they likely had some notions of courtship and courtesy, but these things were reserved for n.o.ble ladies of standing . . . not ign.o.ble ladies who were lying flat. Madelyne was not worth sweet words or seduction. These were men who were still riding the giddy euphoria that comes with war. They had displayed their armed might to one another, fighting battles that the simple peasant could only guess at. Now they were eager to show their abilities of conquest in other realms. Realms that should have been, as far as others were concerned, of a gentle nature. But these were rough men, and gentleness was not for them.

And so they took her repeatedly, right there on the table. Splinters lodged in her bare b.u.t.tocks, and bruises were raised on her upper body where pieces of still-worn armor slammed into her when a knight moved atop her with less than caution. As for her lower body, well, at first she felt pain, but that was only for the first couple of "suitors." After that she was numb as they continued to spear her with all the compa.s.sion that a butcher displays for a hog. The numbness very likely originated in her mind as sort of a fail-safe, and all sensation below her waist simply shut down.

That was how the knights of King Runcible the Crafty entertained themselves that night. One after the other, and even the one who wasn't a knight, he took his turn with her, and when they were all done, they did it again. By that point she was not even trying to say anything. She simply lay there like a battered sack of wheat, her thoughts in a very faraway place filled with dancing unicorns which approached her shyly as she, virtuous and without stain, held out her hand to them and let them gently lick her palm. Nearby her in her fantasy realm, the phoenix bird birthed itself once more. High overhead, a great purple dragon flew by, wings outstretched and lazily beating the air.

She drifted off into that pleasant world, and there she resided until she felt some sort of warmth upon her face. Slowly her eyes fluttered open and she realized that it was streams of sunlight caressing her. The thunderous night had pa.s.sed, and she had lain unconscious upon that hard wooden tabletop, her skirts hiked up around her waist, for who knew how long. The knights were gone, and the only thing to mark their pa.s.sing was the soreness between her legs.

Stroker walked in, and whatever it was he was expecting to see it certainly wasn't that. For just a moment, surprise played across his face. Perhaps he felt a flickering of concern for the woman. He might have regretted his inaction of the previous night, for he must have known in his bones what the result was going to be; and maybe there was a spark of human compa.s.sion and guilt that clawed at him, which rattled his spine and chilled his blood.

If there was anything like that, it pa.s.sed quickly, and his normal scowl darkened his face once more as he said gruffly, "Get cleaned up. You look like c.r.a.p." He paused as if he was considering adding something, and then thought better of it, turned, and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

And thus was I conceived.

It occurs to me, as I read over the previous narrative, that I may come across as cold or hardhearted. I have described to you, after all, the brutal and pitiless gang rape of my mother. I have done so in a fairly straightforward manner. Where is the pa.s.sion, you might wonder? Where is the sense of outrage? Did I not care about the awful circ.u.mstances that resulted in my being placed upon this earth?

Once, pa.s.sion was all that sustained me. Anger burned brightly in my chest, and a sense of moral outrage consumed me. These were, after all, knights. King Runcible would boast at community fairs and such that they represented the best that mankind had to offer. They were to stand for fair play, for justice, for honor. My mother knew differently, of course. She knew what a pack of b.a.s.t.a.r.ds they were. Either Runcible knew of their efforts and quietly endorsed them-in which case he was a screeching hypocrite-or else they acted without his knowledge, in which case his craftiness was a sham and he lived in quiet ignorance. But she said nothing. She kept her silence, as did the other girls who worked in the inn.

They did so out of fear, of course. Oh, they could have gone to the king, tried to accuse an a.s.sortment of the knights of their crime. But Madelyne would have had trouble identifying the men in question, for they had kept their hoods up the entire time they had been there, and the dim light had continued to cloak them in shadows as black as their own souls. Even if Madelyne had been able to single out specific knights, she would have had no proof to offer. Her bruised body, even the child growing in her belly, could easily have been the result of any other a.s.signation with the types of brutes who usually consorted with tavern floozies. To accuse a knight without proof would have been slander, and slander against a knight of the realm was suicide.

So she said nothing. Indeed, as she rolled off the table and went to wash herself, she knew already that she was going to say nothing. She also claimed later, to me, that she knew even at that moment that I was already in process.

I have no rage now. I have no pity now. It has all been burned out of me, exorcised after decades of experiences and strife, of trauma, of triumphs and almost immediate setbacks. I look upon my life and I am simply left shaking my head, wondering how I managed to contain all the rage that surged in me without spontaneously combusting or in some other way experiencing an abrupt end.

My mother claimed it was because I had a destiny, and my anger was what I needed to survive.

Perhaps she wasn't all that naive after all. Either that, or she simply learned from her harsh trials, just as I did, and dealt with it in her own way. At least she didn't lose her mind. Certainly other women in that position might have done so.

Or maybe she did, and I simply didn't know, since I was a little insane myself. Maybe I still am.

Chapter 3.

My mother needed money, for she supposedly knew immediately that she would be preparing for my arrival. And she knew where her potential for earnings lay.

You see, what I neglected to mention in my earlier narrative is that when she awoke that next, sun-drenched morning, there was something of value upon her belly, in addition to something of value (albeit questionable) within it. It was a handful of coins, glittering in the sunlight. The oh-so-generous knights had left it there. Whether they intended it mockingly or sincerely, or whether they really gave it no thought at all, it's difficult to say. It was far more for a night's work, though, than she had ever received in all her time as a serving wench. The knights obviously considered it simply another form of service.

Her trembling hand wrapped around the coins, and only then did she truly believe they were there.

Money for s.e.x.

It seemed a rather elegant solution to her. She had dreams of building up a sort of nest egg that she could use to buy me . . . well . . . I'm not quite certain, actually. An education, perhaps? A career? A means out of poverty? She might not have had her plans fully formed at that juncture. She only knew that a means of making money had been handed her.

Not that the idea of selling herself hadn't flittered through her head before, particularly on cold nights when she would have done d.a.m.ned near anything just to obtain a bit of shelter. But she still had enough ties to her old way of thinking that the notion of such activities was repugnant to her. Well, her evening with the knights had certainly realigned her thinking on that. The thing that struck her the most was how she had managed to take herself away to a happy place of fantasy and escape. Hidden away in the innermost recesses of her mind, she had very much liked it there. The prospect of returning to that place was not unattractive to her. And if it was possible to earn money while doing so, why then . . . it was almost like a paid vacation.

Besides, it wasn't as if she had to worry about getting pregnant.

And so my mother turned to prost.i.tution.

She didn't quit her day job. She maintained her regular serving duties at Stroker's, if for no other reason than that it provided her with shelter. But she quickly developed a keen eye for seeing potential customers in the daily parade of ruffians and vagabonds who would pa.s.s through the inn. Just as quickly, she grew skilled at letting them know in subtle-and sometimes unsubtle-ways that she could be easily had for a fairly reasonable price.

Stroker became aware of her activities in short order. Far from being morally outraged, he had no problem with it. As far as he was concerned, he supported anything that provided encouragement for return customers. He did, however, want to make certain that he benefited in the short term as well, and insisted on taking a portion of Madelyne's earnings as commission. She didn't argue the point. She was still bringing in more money, at a faster rate, than she would previously have thought possible, so she had no real reason to complain.

In the meantime, she was quite aware of my presence in her belly. Fortunately I developed slowly and was something of a runt, even at my eventual birth, so the fact of the pregnancy was something she was able to conceal for quite some time. If Stroker had had a brain beyond the brutish canniness that pa.s.sed for thought, he might have figured it out. What woman is available for entertainment every day of the month? Nonetheless, it slipped past Stroker for a good long time. Eventually, though, even he-the oaf-noticed it.

In point of fact, someone brought it to his attention. A patron was lying flat on my mother's belly when I decided that that would be a good time to announce my presence to the world. Imagine, if you will, the surprise of the patron to feel a fluttering but firm kick coming through my mother's belly and b.u.mping against his own stomach. He froze, as did she, for she knew what it was and he thought, but couldn't be sure. Just to make sure that there was no doubt, I kicked a second time, and he leaped off her as if her insides had suddenly become shards of gla.s.s.

"What the h.e.l.l do you have in there!" he shouted.

"In where?"

"In your belly! G.o.ds . . . you're pregnant!" he said without waiting for her to reply. "I'm not the father! Don't you dare say I'm the father!"

My mother was not given to bursts of wit, but her reply was about as close as she usually came. "This is our first time together, you idiot," she said. "What, you think you're so potent that you not only impregnate a woman, but you do it retroactively? Skip the first six months of the term? Why not just have s.e.x with a woman and cause the child to spring out of her head fully formed before you even put on your hat to leave?"

He was not amused. Nor was Stroker when he found out when the irate customer told him moments later.

He dragged her into the back room. There was something of a sick irony to that considering that's where it had all started. "Who's the father, you d.a.m.ned trollop!" he shouted.

His wrath had worked on her before, nicely cowing her or prompting her to turn away in fear. But that didn't happen this time. It was as if, with the revelation of her secret, she felt strengthened rather than exposed. The angrier he became, the calmer she was. "I don't know who the father is," she said. "And it's odd that you would call me a 'd.a.m.ned' trollop. You made money off me and contributed nothing."

"I gave you a roof over your head!"

"Men who seek my services aren't concerned about architecture. I could ply my trade in a tent. If I'm d.a.m.ned, Stroker, you're twice d.a.m.ned."

He backhanded her then. He wore a large ring with a dragon on it for luck, and the thing tore at her lower lip. But she didn't flinch. As blood trickled down her chin, she didn't even reach to wipe it off. She just stood there, with a level and unwavering gaze. There was no contempt in that stare, or pity. There was, at most, vague disinterest.

He hit her twice more, trying to elicit some sort of response from her. Still there was nothing. He clearly considered doing it again, but it wasn't having the desired effect and he didn't have the will or the attention span to continue with the futility of browbeating someone who simply wasn't responding. So with an irritated grunt, which was what usually pa.s.sed for pithy conversation from Stroker, he turned and headed for the door.

Just before he reached it, though, something seemed to click in his tiny little brain. Perhaps he was able to do something as simple as basic mathematics, but he suddenly appeared to figure out just precisely when it must have been that the conception occurred. He turned back to her, his hand still on the door handle, and he said, "The knights. The knights did this."

She said nothing, but there must have been something in her eyes-a fleeting look-that convinced him of the accuracy of his surmise.

"A child borne of rape." Amazingly, even the seemingly unflappable Stroker appeared daunted by that. "An ill-omened thing. You would have been wise to try and stop it from blossoming in your belly the moment you realized it." Such a thing would easily have been possible, and they both knew it. There were certain mixtures of herbs that, when consumed, could flush an unborn child from its resting place with alacrity, at least in the early stages.

"It's not an ill omen," she said sharply.