The draconian approached Sturm confidently, his breath misting the toothed blade of his sword.
“If I am poisoned, then what does the rest matter?” Sturm declared coldly. The thought was reckless, strangely liberating.
Tivok shrugged ironically. Then music erupted all around them.
It was a warlike skirl of flutes, an old funeral song of Solamnia, loud and shrill. Tivok flinched and was startled for only a moment, but Sturm was on him before he could recover, singing as wildly as he sang that icy morning in the courtyard of the Tower.
“Let the last surge of his breath
Take refuge in the cradling air
Above the dreams of ravens where
Only the hawk remembers death.
Then let his shade to Huma rise
Beyond the wild impartial skies.…”
Tivok staggered back, his tail thrashing roughly in the ice-encrusted mud. The two swords locked instantly, Solamnic heirloom and saw-toothed draconian saber. Sturm slipped gracefully between the blades, rolled under the draconian’s legs, and leapt to his feet on the creature’s other side, swatting his tail playfully with the flat of the sword.
“Back here, Your Amphibiousness,” Sturm taunted. He wheeled and brought his sword around in a dazzling arc, and it took all of the draconian’s quickness to stop the slashing blow.
Back Tivok staggered, the lad before him a prodigy of blade and movement and invention. Wherever Tivok’s sword went, Sturm parried it, as though the weapon itself sensed movement and intent. Sturm danced just out of reach of the sword, lunging and darting like a hummingbird, his long blade thrusting and nipping and flickering.
There seemed to be two of him, splashing bravely at the margins of the Vingaard.
Slowly the draconian’s fear overtook him. Something had gone awry with the poison, for by now the human should be helpless, paralyzed.
Tivok looked about frantically, searching for high ground, for reinforcements, for avenues of escape. Always his eyes came back to the sword, flashing and turning at his throat, his chest, his face. Sturm danced and sang as he fought, and the air whistled with the sound of wind over metal and the faint descant of a distant flute.
The draconian gathered himself and leapt toward the lad in desperation. Hurtling through the air, he turned clumsily, his sword waving ineffectually as Sturm stepped aside …
And brought his sword down at the base of the creature’s skull.
It was all over in a moment. Though the last cry of Tivok the draconian carried upriver to his drowsing cohorts, no one came to his aid to avenge his death upon the lad who vaulted into the saddle and, too wise to wait for further trouble, spurred his little mare to the west across the level, forsaken plains.
Lying on the dam, Hawode stirred at the distant noise, then tumbled into a deeper sleep.
Chapter 23
Always the First of Spring
———
Vertumnus set down his flute and sighed.
Below, the villagers sat transfixed by the song, their faces uplifted. They hadn’t seen what the pooled waters of the clearing had shown him—the reflection of Sturm’s crossing the Vingaard and the struggle that took place on the western banks.
Jack cleared his throat.
“Not much of your exalted friend left in that son of his,” he observed teasingly, his gaze on Lord Wilderness.
“You could have learned much from him, Jack,” Vertumnus insisted. “Most of the world out there is like him.”
“We wish the lizard had eaten him!” Diona hissed.
“We do not!” Evanthe argued, pulling her sister’s hair until the smaller dryad squealed with anger and pain. They wrestled like squirrels on a high branch, then stopped suddenly as Evanthe hung precariously from a twig.
“But why, Lord Vertumnus?” they asked in unison. “Why did the lizard’s poison fail?”
“Washed by the snow of our music,” Vertumnus explained. “And no more scuffles and snicker-snacks from the two of you!” He waved his flute at the dryads, and the wind coursed through it. Instantly the vallenwood sprouted branches all about them, trapping them in a cage of wood.
The Green Man looked into the pool, where leaves floated aimlessly and the waters rippled and swirled. The faint call of birds at the edge of the forest signaled spring’s return, and a warm western breeze sailed through the branches.
“He is a noble sort,” Jack observed after a long silence in which the villagers, believing the music and drama were over and that what was said now passed only between father and son, dispersed to various tasks in the clearing. “Honorable and brave, and only half tedious. He distinguished himself with sword and honor.”
“That is all he chooses to know,” Vertumnus observed. “And he may perish for lack of knowledge.” As he put away his flute, music again filled the clearing.
Quickly the company in the trees turned toward the source of the melody. The elf maiden Mara stood at the far edge of the pool, clad in a white gown of gossamer and leaves. A wreath of holly was woven into the strands of her dark hair, and her eyes were adorned with the subtle colors of berries.
Hollis stood behind her, grinning at her handiwork and at how Jack Derry’s eyes and smile widened at the sight of the girl.
Mara held the flute to her lips and played on, the stately hymn of Branchala, for which only the elves have words. The villagers, sensing something wonderful and beyond their understanding, stopped their tasks to listen. Standing in a ring of children, Weyland the smith turned to face the elf maiden and reverently removed his hat.
“Bitch!” Diona hissed angrily, but she fell into silence at a withering glance from Vertumnus. Jack rose and climbed down the tree, his eyes never leaving the brilliant spectacle of maiden and music, his thoughts adoring and intimate.
Vertumnus turned away, surrendering the privacy of the moment to his son and the girl.
“The first of spring is always approaching,” he whispered knowingly.
Around Sturm the night had settled, and the stars arranged themselves in the winter constellations. It struck him for the first time that perhaps the days had reversed themselves, that the year had sunk back into ice to await the coming of spring.
For a moment, his thoughts turned to the Southern Darkwoods. Perhaps if the spring were postponed, there was still time to turn the horse about, to retrace the path he had taken.…
But he was deep into Solamnia now, a scant three hours’ ride from the Tower of the High Clerist. He had chosen to return, and now he would do so, regardless of judgment and censure and the threat of Lord Boniface. It was honorable to see this through, to brave the disapproval of Lords Gunthar and Alfred and Stephan for the sake of justice. And for revenge.
Surely the Knights would incline their ear to redress Lord Boniface’s misdeeds. For Justice is the heart of the Measure and the soul of the Rose.
On he rode, into the mountainous night, until the faint sentry lights on the battlements of the Knight’s Spur shone high in the west like one last constellation.
They clothed him, and fed him, and put him to bed. Old Reza attended the Knight’s quarters in the early hours of the morning, and it was he who saw to Sturm’s comfort, arranging bread and cheese on a table in front of the lad and pouring goblet after goblet of water while he poured Tower gossip into Sturm’s inattentive ears.
“And the Jeoffreys feuded with the MarKenins once more, young master, though not as fiercely as they done back in the summer of ’twenty-seven. It all started when young Hieronymus Jeoffrey lit into Alastor MarKenin after some hunting they done in the Hart’s Forest. Hieronymus come from it with a black eye and a dented countenance, which makes Darien Jeoffrey decide that Sir Alastor is needin’ to be … well, adorned likewise. So Darien and a trio of younger Jeoffreys light into Alastor in a dark passage over the Knight’s Spur, and he comes out with eye and countenance and a broken left hand to boot. Which Lord Alfred redresses by pushing Darien against a crenel the next morning and gra
bbing the lad’s off hand with a little too much emphasis, if you understand …”
Sturm nodded. Reza continued serenely, forgetting his traditional place in the excitement of the story and seating himself by the young man.
“But in that process, Master Sturm, Sir Darien comes away with the additional bruised ribs, which Lord Adamant goes around claiming Lord Alfred has not got and is in sore need of. So Lords Adamant and Alfred came to the edge of dueling and would of passed over into swords or lances had not Lord Stephan stepped in and smoothed down the hackles.…”
Sturm nodded and mumbled, his mouth full of bread. The Tower was the same.
“And, of course, like he always does,” Reza babbled on serenely, “Lord Boniface says that they should settle it by the sword anyway, though betwixt you and me, young Master, they could settle it if only one of them knew how to let a bygone be and get on with the business of knighthood. Anyway, Lord Boniface says it could be arms courteous, the blunted sword or the wicker, but that the Measure said, and so and so …”
Sturm was instantly alert at the name of his father’s old friend. Slowly he set down the goblet and stared at the ancient servant, trying his best to appear calm, only mildly interested.
“Lord Boniface, you say? Then he … is here at the Tower?”
Reza nodded. “Have some more cheese, Master Sturm,” he offered, pushing the plate toward the lad. “Yes, indeed, Lord Boniface is here.”
“Then I shall have to pay my respects, out of family loyalty,” Sturm replied—a little too quickly, he feared. “Yes. I’ll call on him and pay my respects.”
He smiled at the old servant and accepted another wedge of cheese. His thoughts raced quickly over strategies.
“He’ll expect you right away,” Reza prodded. “You know how he is about the Measure.”
“Indeed he will,” Sturm said, grateful for the interfering nature of ancient retainers. “Indeed he will, Reza, and given the hour and my weariness, I should be beholding if you would say nothing of my arrival until a time when I might … present myself to him.”
Reza nodded, bowed, and backed away from the table. Sturm finished the bread, sure of the old man’s confidence. Then he stood quietly, yawned, took the candle from the table, and slipped down a back stairwell to his cubicle. He was tired and already dreaming as he approached the room, oblivious to the hour, the birdsong outside, the soft shuffling on the stairs behind him.
As Sturm closed the door behind him, a faint light appeared on the stairwell landing. Stealthily Derek Crownguard peered around the corner, smiled, and padded up the steps to his uncle’s chambers.
Sturm announced his presence the next morning.
He collared a page in the hall and sent the boy rushing to Lord Alfred MarKenin, bearing the news that Master Sturm Brightblade had returned from parts eastward and south and would be honored to give account of his journey in the presence of the High Council.
When the page returned at noon to escort him to the council room of the Knight’s Spur, Sturm followed the child, his armor spotless and buffed, his sword glittering and naked in his hand. For an odd moment in his quarters, he had thought to place the weapon in the sheath that was Vertumnus’s gift.
He had decided against it. It was a gleaming reminder of his defeat.
Sturm knew that the High Council was made up of Lords Gunthar, Alfred, and Stephan. Since the council sat privately with each returning Knight, Boniface would not be present. For what Sturm had to say, that absence would be most welcome.
The council room was none other than the great hall in which the Yule banquet had taken place. Stripped of its ornament and restored to its everyday function, it seemed dark and serviceable, an office of state rather than a seat of ceremony, the heart of efficiency rather than elegance.
His first surprise was a rude one. Alfred was there, and Lord Gunthar, but instead of Lord Stephan Peres, Boniface Crownguard of Foghaven sat in the third council seat. When Sturm entered the room, Boniface leaned forward, his face expressionless but his eyes cold and absorbed as an archer’s on the target.
Sturm completed the three ceremonial bows distractedly, and in the third of the six formal addresses, he stumbled over the word “impeccable” and blushed deeply.
It was not according to the Measure, this sloppiness. It had been too long since he attended to ritual, and there was Boniface besides.…
“You presume much, Sturm Brightblade,” Alfred observed, “to request audience with this council. After all, you are not yet of the Order.”
“True enough, Lord Alfred,” Sturm agreed. He found it difficult not to look at Boniface. “And yet on Yule night, when Lord Wilderness challenged me and I decided to embark, it was at the urging of the Order and with its blessings. I thought it … proper … that I should answer in turn to its judgments.”
“What you think is … proper,’ Sturm Brightblade, is not necessarily by the Measure,” Boniface remarked, his voice dry and cold. He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands elegantly across his chest. “But we of the council have an interest in what came to pass regarding your journey to the Southern Darkwoods. And so, given these extraordinary circumstances, the Council … indulges your testimony.”
“For that I am most grateful,” Sturm replied, recovering in the intricate dance of deference and courtesy. “And I might welcome the Lord Boniface to a place upon the High Council, expressing the hope that his appointment was in … happy circumstance.”
There was a long pause, in which the three council members glanced uneasily at one another.
“Lord Stephan is elsewhere,” Alfred replied. “Be seated.”
Sturm looked in puzzlement from face to face, waiting for further tidings of his old friend, for the High Justice’s explanation. But Lord Alfred averted his glance, leaning to whisper something in the ear of Boniface, who nodded vigorously. Gunthar was the only member of the council who would regard the lad directly. His quick, almost undetectable wink was reassuring, though it revealed nothing.
Sturm cleared his throat. “I suppose,” he began, “that I should begin with my news of Vertumnus.”
And he told it all, or almost all, trusting in the truth and the judgment of at least two who sat on the council. He told how he had ventured through the maze of a ghostly castle, through bandits and hostile villagers into a wood of illusions, guarded by mythical creatures and mysterious, deceptive paths.
He told his story, scarcely mentioning the various ambushes, snares, and traps he had encountered on his journey to and from the Darkwoods, nor did he speak of Jack Derry or Mara, though he wasn’t certain why he kept his friends from the recounting. Three pairs of eyes were fixed on him in the telling, and when he finished, the council hall settled into a thick, uncomfortable silence.
“Well,” Lord Boniface began, with a sidelong glance at Lords Alfred and Gunthar. “I suppose a certain honesty lies in any account of failure.”
“More than that is revealed in this telling,” Lord Gunthar protested, turning to Boniface in irritation. “And if the Lord Boniface were … more seasoned in matters of the council, he would realize the virtues and merit of the lad’s journey.”
“Perhaps the Lord Gunthar would care to instruct me,” Boniface replied ironically, addressing his words to Sturm as he pivoted in his chair. “The boy was sent to the Southern Darkwoods to meet with Lord Wilderness on the first night of spring, there to resolve a mysterious challenge. By his own admission, Sturm fulfilled only the first of his duties—to reach the Southern Darkwoods. No matter that he might as well have gathered mushrooms or … consorted with fairies.”
He smiled cruelly, and with a deft swordsman’s movement, drew forth his dagger and began to pare his fingernails.
Sturm’s jaw dropped. Setting aside the Measure with the same recklessness that had guided his sword against the draconian on the banks of the Vingaard, he turned to his antagonist.
“Mushrooms and fairies are less … nightgrown and unbelievable than
what I did see, m’lords. For I saw one of the Order … a renowned Knight of the Sword … in dark conspiracy against me, and for reasons that I know not!”
The hall was ominously silent. A servant’s broom rustled over the stairwell outside the door, and an incongruous owl hooted in astonishment somewhere in the eaves of the castle. The Solamnic Lords didn’t move, and Sturm thought of Castle di Caela, of its marbled monuments to family and folly, as he told the story anew.
This time he left nothing out. Jack Derry emerged in the tale, with all his unstudied know-how, and the elf maiden Mara in her petulance and music and her odd devotion to a cowardly spider. For the first time, Sturm mentioned the druidess, the name Ragnell stirring old memories on the faces of the council.
But through all his story one name returned again and again, from the moment the door of Castle di Caela closed behind him all the way to the last words of Tivok, the draconian assassin.
Boniface it was. “Grimbane.” Lord Boniface of Foghaven, Solamnic Knight of the Sword.
Conspirator. Traitor to the Measure.
It was as though the world had stopped. After a minute’s silence, in which nothing whatsoever spoke or sounded or even stirred, Lord Alfred cleared his throat.
“These,” he intoned, “are the most ominous of charges, Master Sturm Brightblade.”
“Charges for which,” burst in Lord Boniface, “I shall demand satisfaction!”
Angrily the swordsman pushed away from the table, knocking over his chair and scattering paper and leather-bound volumes of the Measure. He drew his sword and stalked to the center of the room, where he turned and faced them all—his accuser and the council members who had heard the story.
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