Free The Heirs of Hammerfell by Marion Zimmer Bradley Page B

very small, though his mother never grudged him enough money to
    keep up appearances.
    At that moment four young men―the sons of Edric of Elhalyn―crowded all at once
    into the box, and surrounded the refreshment table. The tallest of them came quickly to Floria's side and demanded with a frown, "Who is this stranger you are talking to, sister?
    And why are you gossiping and flirting with strange young men?"
    Floria said with a high color rising in her cheeks, "My brother Gwynn, Lord Alastair of Hammerfell; he is our cousin; I have known him since we were
    children, and we have been talking most correctly in the presence of both our parents; our father and his mother. You may ask either of them here if a single word has passed between us that is not perfectly suitable."
    "That's right, Gwynn," said Lord Edric. "This lady is the Duchess of Hammerfell, an old friend and our kinswoman."
    Gwynn bowed to Erminie. "Your pardon, ma'am. No offense intended."
    Erminie smiled and said graciously, "None taken, kinsman; if I had a daughter, I could wish she would have brothers with such care for her behavior and reputation." But Alastair was glowering.
    "It is for the lady Floria, and not you, sir, to say if my company is distasteful to her; and I'll thank you to mind your own affairs."
    Gwynn all too eagerly picked up the glove, "Can you say it is not my affair when I see my sister conversing with some landless upstart in exile, whose old story of grievances is a joke from Dalereuth to Nevarsin?" Gwynn snapped. "When I came here tonight there was unrest in the city―hordes of displaced peasants in the streets, gangs of young toughs ready to make some gesture against aristocrats―but I'm sure you don't know or care―you were too busy telling your tired old story of Hammerfell ... it might as well be cloud-cuckoo-land! You can call yourself what you will, but don't presume on some doubtful title in exile―there are a hundred such titles in Thendara. Lord of Cloudland Staircase, or of Zandru's Tenth Hell, I suppose. Such things may sound fine to young girls who know no better, but―"
    "Look here, Gwynn," Lord Edric interrupted, "that's
    enough―your lack of manners is appalling! I am not yet so old I cannot decide who is fit to be my guest or my friend. Apologize at once to Lady Erminie and Alastair!"
    But Gwynn would not back down. "Father, don't you know that this Hammerfell affair is a joke all over the Hundred Kingdoms? If Hammerfell is his, why is he not with his people in the Hellers, rather than idling here in Thendara boring everyone in earshot―"
    But this was quite enough for Alastair; he grabbed Gwynn's shirt front and pushed hard with his free hand on the young man's nose. "Listen, you! You keep your mouth off my family―"
    Erminie cried out reproachfully, but her son was too angry to hear. Gwynn Elhalyn's face reddened furiously, and he shoved Alastair so hard that he stumbled over a piece of furniture and measured his length on the carpeted floor of the box. He jumped to his feet, grabbed Gwynn's shirt front again, and shoved him stumbling through the door of the box, reeling into a footman who was carrying a tray of glasses; the man went down in a crash of glassware, wine splashing everywhere. Alastair wiped his eyes, and snarled, plunging at Gwynn who had stumbled to his feet and had his skean out.
    Lord Edric bellowed, thrusting himself between them, grabbing Gwynn's dagger and
    restraining his son. "Damn it, I said that's enough, and I'll be obeyed! How dare you draw your dagger, boy, against your father's invited guests?"
    Erminie interrupted tactfully, "Kinsman, the second cantata is about to begin; look, the soloists are
    taking their places on the stage. My son and I must take our leave."
    "Yes, indeed," said Lord Edric almost thankfully. He nodded at Alastair, "We'll meet at Floria's ball―"
    At that moment there was a disturbance in the passage; a group of poorly dressed young men, laughing and jeering,