Read Online The Damned 02 - The Swords Of Night and Day by David Gemmell - Free Book Online
Authors: David Gemmell
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can’t make it now. He did not write down his recipes.
It’s a shame, isn’t it, when something good just goes away?’
‘Are you speaking of your father or the bread?’
‘The bread,’ she admitted. ‘Does that make me seem shallow?’
‘I do not know. Perhaps your father was an unpleasant man.’
‘No, he wasn’t. He was kind and gentle. But his illness went on for so long that it was a blessing when he passed away. I still find tears in my eyes when I pass a bakery and smell fresh-baked bread. It reminds me of him.’
‘I do not think you are shallow, Charis,’ he said, his voice gentle. Her eyes narrowed and she stared hard at him. He saw the change in her. ‘Did I say something to offend you?’ he asked. ‘I thought it to be a compliment.’
‘I know why you compliment women,’ she said stiffly. ‘You seek to take them to your bed.’
‘There is some truth in that observation,’ he replied. ‘Though it is not always the case. Sometimes a compliment is merely a compliment. However, I am keeping you from your work.’
With that he returned to the balcony. Charis stood for a moment, feeling foolish. Then she left the room, angry with herself.
He was not what she had been expecting. He did not leer, or make suggestive comments. He had not tried to seduce her. How different are you from Kerena and the others, she thought? You judged the man on what others had said, just as they judge Harad on hearsay.
And now he thought her witless and foolish.
It doesn’t matter what he thinks, she told herself sternly. Why should you care about the opinion of a man with a painted back?
*
Most of the itinerant loggers had brought tents which they pitched alongside the cook fires to sleep in at night, or sat outside under the starlight. Others merely found a dry spot beneath the trees and slept rough, under thin blankets. Harad always found a place away from the main groups, settling himself down alone.
He liked the night, and the awesome quiet. It calmed him.
Harad had always preferred to be alone.
Well, not always, he admitted to himself, as he sat with his back resting against the trunk of a huge oak. He could remember, as a child, wanting to play with the other children of the mountain village. The problem was always his strength. In play fights and scraps he would try not to hurt them, yet always some child would run away crying and in pain. ‘I only patted him,’ Harad would say. One day, when he grabbed another boy, the child had screamed. His arm was broken. After that no-one wanted to play with Harad.
His mother, Alanis, a shy, reserved woman, had tried to comfort him. His father, Borak, a brooding logger, had said nothing. But then Borak rarely spoke to Harad, unless to scold. Harad never understood why his father disliked him, nor indeed why Borak would always leave when Landis Kan visited. The lord would sit with the boy, asking him questions - mostly about whether he dreamt. No-one else seemed interested in his dreams. He would always ask the same question. ‘Do you dream of ancient days, Harad?’
It was an odd question, and Harad didn’t know what it meant. He would tell the lord that he dreamt of mountains, of woods. Landis Kan was disappointed.
Borak was killed in a freak accident when Harad was nine. A felled tree crashed to the ground, and a dead branch snapped upon impact. A shard of sharp wood flew through the air, piercing Borak’s eye, embedding itself in his brain. He did not die swiftly. Paralysed, he was carried down to the palace, where Landis Kan himself fought to save him. Harad still remembered when the lord rode up to the cabin with the news that Borak had died. Strangely his mother shed no tears.
Alanis herself died three years ago when Harad was seventeen. There was no drama. She said goodnight, and went to her bed. In the morning Harad tried to wake her. He brought her a tisane of sweet mint, and placed it by her bedside. Then he had touched her shoulder. As he
It’s a shame, isn’t it, when something good just goes away?’
‘Are you speaking of your father or the bread?’
‘The bread,’ she admitted. ‘Does that make me seem shallow?’
‘I do not know. Perhaps your father was an unpleasant man.’
‘No, he wasn’t. He was kind and gentle. But his illness went on for so long that it was a blessing when he passed away. I still find tears in my eyes when I pass a bakery and smell fresh-baked bread. It reminds me of him.’
‘I do not think you are shallow, Charis,’ he said, his voice gentle. Her eyes narrowed and she stared hard at him. He saw the change in her. ‘Did I say something to offend you?’ he asked. ‘I thought it to be a compliment.’
‘I know why you compliment women,’ she said stiffly. ‘You seek to take them to your bed.’
‘There is some truth in that observation,’ he replied. ‘Though it is not always the case. Sometimes a compliment is merely a compliment. However, I am keeping you from your work.’
With that he returned to the balcony. Charis stood for a moment, feeling foolish. Then she left the room, angry with herself.
He was not what she had been expecting. He did not leer, or make suggestive comments. He had not tried to seduce her. How different are you from Kerena and the others, she thought? You judged the man on what others had said, just as they judge Harad on hearsay.
And now he thought her witless and foolish.
It doesn’t matter what he thinks, she told herself sternly. Why should you care about the opinion of a man with a painted back?
*
Most of the itinerant loggers had brought tents which they pitched alongside the cook fires to sleep in at night, or sat outside under the starlight. Others merely found a dry spot beneath the trees and slept rough, under thin blankets. Harad always found a place away from the main groups, settling himself down alone.
He liked the night, and the awesome quiet. It calmed him.
Harad had always preferred to be alone.
Well, not always, he admitted to himself, as he sat with his back resting against the trunk of a huge oak. He could remember, as a child, wanting to play with the other children of the mountain village. The problem was always his strength. In play fights and scraps he would try not to hurt them, yet always some child would run away crying and in pain. ‘I only patted him,’ Harad would say. One day, when he grabbed another boy, the child had screamed. His arm was broken. After that no-one wanted to play with Harad.
His mother, Alanis, a shy, reserved woman, had tried to comfort him. His father, Borak, a brooding logger, had said nothing. But then Borak rarely spoke to Harad, unless to scold. Harad never understood why his father disliked him, nor indeed why Borak would always leave when Landis Kan visited. The lord would sit with the boy, asking him questions - mostly about whether he dreamt. No-one else seemed interested in his dreams. He would always ask the same question. ‘Do you dream of ancient days, Harad?’
It was an odd question, and Harad didn’t know what it meant. He would tell the lord that he dreamt of mountains, of woods. Landis Kan was disappointed.
Borak was killed in a freak accident when Harad was nine. A felled tree crashed to the ground, and a dead branch snapped upon impact. A shard of sharp wood flew through the air, piercing Borak’s eye, embedding itself in his brain. He did not die swiftly. Paralysed, he was carried down to the palace, where Landis Kan himself fought to save him. Harad still remembered when the lord rode up to the cabin with the news that Borak had died. Strangely his mother shed no tears.
Alanis herself died three years ago when Harad was seventeen. There was no drama. She said goodnight, and went to her bed. In the morning Harad tried to wake her. He brought her a tisane of sweet mint, and placed it by her bedside. Then he had touched her shoulder. As he
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