by R J Hanson
Claire was amazed at the reasoning of Father Gadriel. She had, without malice of any sort, dismissed him as a rather simple priest of humble means. It occurred to her she would quite enjoy listening to a conversation between Father Gadriel and her own father, Lynneare.
“Only those struck blind could miss our guests in the front row,” Father Gadriel went on. “Sir Roland and his wife-to-be, Lady Clairenese. Some of you have cheered Sir Roland and what he has done. Ask yourselves, did you see these great feats? Some of you have murmured about Lady Clairenese. Ask yourselves, have you witnessed any sin of hers? I say to you now judge not lest ye be judged!”
Father Gadriel took a moment to gather his breath and take a drink of ale from a mug nearby.
“Does that mean accept blindly?” Father Gadriel asked. “No! Bolvii gave you your mind. Bolvii gave you the ability to reason. Think for yourselves! But, do not condemn without cause. Do not judge without evidence. Never gossip!”
Claire decided she liked this priest, this Father Gadriel. She liked him a great deal.
“Now comes Lady Clairenese into our midst,” Father Gadriel said. “Lady Claire, please, come and stand before our humble congregation.”
Claire changed her mind about Father Gadriel at once. She liked him not at all.
“Lady Claire, please come,” Father Gadriel said as he stepped in front of the altar and extended his hand.
Roland stood and held out his hand for Claire. She was glad to have him at her side at this moment. She had dealt with fallen champions, lesser vampires, giants, and sorcerers. She had bent the forces of darkness to serve her and had broken the laws of nature by her very being. She had manipulated powers most kings only dreamed of possessing. Never had she been so frightened. She took Roland’s hand, rose, and turned to face the congregation.
“Now comes a woman to worship with us,” the Father said. “Will you welcome her?”
Many in the congregation stood, turned, and promptly walked from the temple. Farmers, smiths, shopkeepers, soldiers, tavern girls, housemen, wagon wrights, ferriers, fathers, wives, sons, and daughters were divided by this proposition. A few remained behind, lingering and unsure of themselves. Fewer still appeared confident in their decision to remain and welcome the lady.
“Will you welcome her?” the priest asked again.
Those few remaining looked to each other for strength or for guidance. Tindrakin, who had remained on the back row with Eldryn, walked past them to take a knee before Clairenese. He kissed her hand and stood next to her and Roland. One by one the others that remained behind followed. Some hugged her while others took her hand to kiss. Tears of shame, pain, and joy rolled down Claire’s ivory cheeks. Those same emotions threatened to erupt from her throat in great sobs.
“May peace and joy find you wherever you travel,” Father Gadriel said as a final dismissal. The small congregation made their way out of the church slowly and a few looked back to them and smiled.
“Pompous fools,” Roland said through strained lips. “I should…”
“Learn to be more forgiving,” Father Gadriel finished for him. “Did you not hear a word of the sermon?”
“Fully half of them turned their backs on us,” Roland said.
“Yes,” Father Gadriel said. “But many did not. You expect them to let go of prejudice so easily when you cling so to your own?”
“Father, thank you,” Claire said. “I never imagined, I never hoped to be accepted by any much less so many.”
“You owe me no thanks, my dear,” the Father said. “I am a faithful servant of Bolvii, as much as I’m able anyway. You are welcome here always. If some choose not to return, then that is for them to resolve with Bolvii, not with you or I.”
“Father, thank you,” Roland said.
“As I said…” the priest began.
It was Roland’s turn to cut Father Gadriel short.
“I thank you for opening my eyes,” Roland said. “In spite of my best efforts.”
Roland handed Father Gadriel a pouch of gold and Roarke’s Ore coins.
“For the refugees and those in need,” Roland said. “You will be hearing from Marnie, Mandurelle, my advisor in all things involving coin. She will be sending shipments of supplies to you for you to use as you see fit.”
“That is very kind of you,” Father Gadriel said.
“It is my responsibility,” Roland said. “On to another matter. Claire and I will be married next month. Would you do me the honor of conducting that ceremony?”
“Sir Roland, I would be honored,” Father Gadriel said.
Eldryn, for his part, had stayed until the last of the congregation had left. He stepped outside to see a number, no more than a dozen or so, gathering near the church. Their mood was that of a forming mob and their talk was that of a town drunk. As they came together and moved toward the church Eldryn stepped out of the temple and stood before them. He wasn’t concerned for Roland or Claire, but rather for the louts that gathered. If Roland heard any of what they had to say he would kill them to a man. One look at Sir Eldryn in their path and the forming mob, much like a thunder head that is suddenly blown away by a west wind, disbanded quickly.
Claire, watching the scene develop through the not quite closed door and over Eldryn’s shoulder, began to weep, that brief illusion of belonging shattered. Roland, mistaking sorrow for joy, took her in his arms. He was so in love with his bride-to-be.
Roland and Claire left the temple and headed for the post master’s office while Eldryn headed toward the inner keep where the residing paladins usually worshiped. Eldryn, much to his chagrin, was followed by a well-meaning Tindrakin.
Mandurelle,
I have a new task for you. You are to send a shipment of seeds for various crops, silk for bandages, healing herbs, and copper tubing to Father Gadriel of the Church of Bolvii in Skult. Invest as your wisdom and conscience dictate. Pay yourself and those at the weapon shop a fair wage. Profits beyond that should be redirected to the aid of the churches here in Skult until such time as the trouble in these lands is settled. Send the aid under your own name or that of a business. Mine should not be attached to it.
Respectfully,
Sir Roland
Claire reviewed the letter and nodded her consent. Roland posted the letter with the post master’s office in Skult and paid the coin for the delivery.
“What did you think of the Father’s sermon?” Roland asked Claire as they walked toward the stables.
“He is a wise man,” Claire said. “I did not expect that. I expected platitudes and book quoting. I like him.”
“You still seem unsettled,” Roland said. “I know being accepted by them was an emotional moment for you. Is something wrong?”
How can I tell him of the mob Eldryn so discretely dispersed? How can I tell him of the fear I could smell on those that approached us in the temple? How can I tell him?
“Nothing, dear,” Claire said. “I am tired. As you said, it was an emotional morning.”
“Perhaps a meal at a tavern before we head for the stable then?” Roland suggested.
“No, I am ready to go home,” Claire said. “There is so much that must be done before the wedding.”
“I would hire help but, until I can settle with the Black Fly, I would fear for their safety. It would seem that the sudden, and unexpected, arrival of my father has dampened their spirits. However, with the likes of this Lord Kyhn working with them anything is possible.”
Claire stiffened at the mention of the large warrior’s name. Roland assumed it was out of some reflexive fear of the man that had so invaded their home. Roland was wrong.
“You are wise in that decision,” Claire said. “The preparations are no bother. In truth, I rather enjoy making them. But there is much to do.”
That evening, as Claire and Roland sat with Kodii in the front yard of the emerging home, Eldryn and Tindrakin rode down the trail toward the small estate. The smell of the fresh rabbit stew was pleasant in the
air and the cool evening breeze completed the peaceful setting.
“If you haven’t eaten you should join us,” Roland called to Eldryn and Tindrakin.
“We’ll see to our horses, you see that you leave some for us,” Eldryn said.
Eldryn and Tin rode to the barn, the gentle sound of their horses’ hooves on soft ground accompanying them. Eldryn unsaddled and rubbed down both his mount and Tindrakin’s. Tin went to the river to collect their barrel of cooling ale. Roland and Eldryn had learned the trick from the dwarves and Tindrakin had developed quite a taste for it. The five-gallon barrel of ale was secured to a nearby tree with a rope and then set into the cold, flowing waters of the river. This cooled the ale making it even more enjoyable on warm nights.
Kodii smiled to himself at the strange and so familiar scene. Such a different culture from his own, yet this was his tribe. He walked quietly out into the cooling night and welcoming forest.
Roland stepped into the house, his thoughts on collecting his smoking leaf from the small stand next to his bed.
Claire moved off toward the barn.
“I wanted to thank you,” Claire said as Eldryn emerged from the barn doors.
“M’lady?”
“I wanted to thank you for your actions on the church steps this morning,” Claire said, working to keep her voice even and calm. “And thank you for not telling Roland.”
“He would have just…well, the situation would have gotten worse I believe if it had required his attention,” Eldryn said.
“You have a future as a diplomat, should you choose it,” Claire said, smiling. Then, more seriously, “but thank you. Few have ever stood in my defense. I am so sorry to have brought my troubles to your door.”
“Roland is my brother,” Eldryn said, dropping his usual sarcastic and jovial tone. “The wife he takes will also be my family. His troubles, and hers, are also my troubles. He loves you. Therefore, I love you. You have no need to thank me for anything.”
With that said, Eldryn took Claire’s hand and kissed it gently. Her composed and gracious smile was betrayed by the single tear that spilled onto her pale cheek.
“Any news from the Prince, or other knights?” Roland’s question as he exited the small cabin startled them both. Eldryn offered his arm and Claire took it in hers as they walked back toward the benches in the front yard.
As Eldryn was opening his mouth to reply Tindrakin answered for him.
“Oh, we didn’t talk to any of them,” Tin said as he strolled toward the gathering with the small barrel of ale. “We only went to see the lady paladin.”
Eldryn’s face flushed a deep shade of red Claire could see in both spectrums of her vision.
“I see,” Roland said smiling.
“I doubt that,” Eldryn said. “I doubt that very much.”
“We had a nice visit,” Tin said, now looking a bit confused. “I don’t…”
“No, you don’t,” Eldryn finished for him. “Are we going to drink any of that ale, or are you going to carry it to bed with you?”
In front of the two-room log house, a glade had been cleared of brush and building debris. A heavy wool carpet had been placed in that glade and the harvested flowers were arranged along the edges of the gray and silver carpet. Six large oak tables, three to a side, flanked the area. Each of those tables was burdened with wine, bread, cheese, several barrels of ale, and various meats. The shipment of other goods from Modins had arrived just in time.
The sun was pulled by Time below the forests to the west. The sky tinted a graceful purple. The decorative lamps and torches were placed along the path of the aisle and two were set to each side of the head of the path. The torches were lit and burned a magical silver-white flame. The enchanted lamps burned their blue glow and the glade took on a mystical quality. The air smelled of spring’s life in the month of Eheno.
Although the mood seemed light and cheerful, the knights guarding Prince Ralston remained wary and watchful. Many faces smiled while just as many hands hovered near weapons. There was laughter, but much of it was forced or offered as some polite reply rather than any genuine frivolity.
Lynneare’s appearance, about which some had been told and others warned, startled the crowd. One moment the air was empty and the next there he stood. Lynneare approached the gathering with a dark-skinned elf at his side. Lynneare wore a coat, sometimes called a longshirt, of black silk fastened with alternating ivory and ebony wood buttons that covered him collar to mid-thigh. His pants were also of black silk and tucked into black leather boots that came up to his knee and gleamed with a high shine. Although his clothing was certainly magnificent, most eyes were on the shrou-sheld that rode opposite a rider’s pike on his wide banded leather belt, also clasped with ivory and ebony wood buttons. Those more familiar with the Warlock of the Marshes could have told the crowd that he would be no less dangerous if he’d arrived naked and in chains. However, there were none here, save perhaps two, that had any idea how dangerous Lynneare truly was.
Even Roland’s hand strayed toward Swift Blood when he saw Maloch of the Black Lance, Maloch the Knight of Shadows, approaching the group. Maloch wore different weapons than those that had nearly taken Roland’s life those months ago and leagues away. However, Roland was wise enough to realize Maloch was a person that could kill with a wooden spoon, should the situation call for it. The fact that he now wore a different set of shrou-shelds at his side, and no armor at all, did nothing to put Roland’s mind at ease. Eldryn, whose eyes had rarely strayed from Lady Angelese, noticed something unusual. Eldryn had always had sharp vision. His blue eyes caught a moment when Lynneare and Angelese seemed to give each other an almost imperceptible look. Recognition? Anger?
“I am attending this gathering of well-wishers, friends, and family as the father of the bride, and friend of the groom,” Lynneare said in his rich, smooth voice, a voice that seemed to carry a subtle weight of enchantment and suggestion. “This is Lord Maloch, and he is my escort. His road, much like my own, is now one of redemption. He comes as a friend to the groom as well.”
Lord Velryk looked to Roland and Roland knew the look for what it was. Roland knew something was expected of him. He walked through the gathering to stand before Maloch for a second time. Maloch stood ready. All eyes awaited the fight they knew would come. The tension in the air sharpened to a needlepoint of conflict. Eldryn placed his hand on his shrou-sheld and located his shield with his eyes at its resting place not too far away.
“Redemption?” Roland asked.
“Redemption,” Maloch echoed. “We once faced each other on a field of honor. I would speak to you of honor now. I have earned the scorn of all here. I have earned the hate of entire nations. I come to offer my hand in friendship, although I have no right to ask it. I have come to offer my sword and service, although you would have every right to curse both. I give you my word of honor if you bid me leave then I will do so peacefully. I give you my word of honor if you demand my head, I will offer it.”
Roland thought of his battle with Maloch. A battle that seemed to have been ages ago now. Roland remembered how skilled Maloch was and how desperate he had been. The only reason he, Eldryn, Ash, or Lucas walked from Nolcavanor that day was because Maloch was true to his word. To his credit, or perhaps because of his ‘thoughtlessness,’ Roland considered not at all how his guests might take all of this. Several quiet moments passed, during which not a breath was taken. Finally, Roland spoke.
“I invite you to this wedding and welcome you to my home,” Sir Roland said as he extended his hand. “I hope you will accept my invitation and welcome with the sincerity with which it is offered.”
Lord Maloch maintained his composure, but Roland was certain he saw a modicum of relief in his eyes. Maloch’s mouth twitched in a brief smile and he shook hands with Sir Roland. The two warriors looked at each other in a new friendship born of mutual respect. Roland turned toward the gathering and for the first time noticed that all eyes were upon them. Eldry
n, who in fact should be the least stunned of them all, was again shocked to his core by Roland’s rash judgement. He wondered if he would ever grow accustomed to Roland’s willingness to follow his intuition without a second thought.
“This is Lord Maloch, no longer of the Black Lance,” Sir Roland began. “He is an honorable warrior, to that I can attest. Now he is a friend. If any here challenge my word then let them speak now.”
The crowd was silent, their surprise complete. Lord Velryk looked on his son with a pride that was only rivaled by his love. For Velryk knew of the Maloch of long ago, and had faced Maloch of the Black Lance on the battlefield. Furthermore, he knew if Maloch had called upon whatever evil he once worshipped then Roland would have died in Nolcavanor. For Velryk was one of the few in all of Stratvs to have witnessed the wrath of an evil paladin’s death curse. He remembered well the dozens of sturdy men struck dead instantly when they had cornered, and then slain another of the Black Lance.
“Today I drink with elves and men,” King Vigorr interjected, taking up his goblet and surprising the crowd. “After that the color of their skin matters not!”
A burst of laughter, genuine this time, followed that sally. The tension slowly washed from the gathering as the wine was poured and plates of cheeses, breads, and fruits were passed from one guest to another. The time came and an enchanted music seemed to come from all around those gathered in the glade. The crowd parted and arranged on both sides of the aisle created by torches, carpet, and flowers.
Roland walked to the head of the gathering to stand next to Father Gadriel, the priest of Bolvii that would perform the services, and Eldryn who would be the Guard Standing for Roland. Roland surveyed the group again in search of his friend, Ashcliff. He had not seen Ashcliff since leaving him in Modins. That thought always saddened him. Claire had sent an invitation to Ashcliff via the enchanted pages; however, no response had come.
