by Dragon Lance
Keep your colonels, officers, and staff away from the native breeding stock, though. Among them, one strong-minded woman could mean treason.
“The pig,” said Luccia vehemently.
“I sense Phrygia’s hand in this, too,” Vinas said. He gazed for a moment at the closing lines of the letter, then folded it and shoved it into a satchel containing five other such uncompromising missives.
Luccia touched Vinas’s bearded chin and turned his face toward her. “You give too much thought to her. It makes me jealous.”
“Jealous of what?” asked Vinas. “I hate that woman. I hate her with a passion.”
“Passion, yes,” she replied. “You have more passion for her than for anyone else. What about me?”
Vinas stood and moved around the table to a small stove that smoldered in the corner of the tent. He rubbed his hands before the weak heat. “I don’t have to be obsessed with you. We’re friends. I’m sure of you.”
She crouched behind him, her hands on his shoulders. “Are you? Are you so sure?” she asked. “Let’s put it this way: when will you finally know this land is yours?”
He paused, an animal sensing a trap but unable to resist the bait. “When I sit in Antonias’s throne and watch the axeman behead him.”
“If you do that, this land will never be yours. You may rule it by might and law, but you will never command the heart of its people. They will rise again. They will eventually put you to the block. You might conquer the land, but you’d never own it.”
He turned, his cheeks reddened by the warmth of the stove. “What has this to do with my being sure of you?”
“Do you really know my heart? Do you really know your own heart?” she asked. She leaned swiftly in, kissed his lips, then drew back, her eyes studying his. “Well?”
Vinas’s face was red from more than just the fire. “You kissed me,” he said stupidly.
Luccia’s eyes were wide beneath a wry expression. “Recognition. It’s a start.” She kissed him again, more slowly, more passionately. “Is this what you are so sure of from me?”
“I’m s-suddenly not sure of anything,” he stammered.
She laughed. “You’re not even sure how it makes you feel?”
“My feelings and I are not on speaking terms. How else could I march up here to kill a —”
Luccia tenderly cradled his jaw. He leaned gently toward her, and their lips met. The third kiss was the longest.
When it was done, Vinas drew back from her and, with a solemnity that was almost comical, said, “I’ve always loved you. You knew that, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” she said, sliding against the warmth of his chest and wrapping arms around him. “Yes, I did. It’s about time you figured that out, too.”
*
One Month Hence, 15 Mishamont, 1200 Age of Light
When the ground was still frozen but the snow had thinned, the scene again was almost the same: same camp chair, same map table, same wolfskin – though now it wrapped both Vinas and Luccia.
The letter was not from Vinas or the emperor, but from Antonias, “king” of Vingaard. The note had arrived via an arrow shot from the battlements. It read, simply:
Let us parley, Vinas Solamnus. I invite you and ten of those you trust to dine with me this night in the keep. I, of course, swear upon my honor and the honor and soul o, f Vingaard that you and yours will be safe. If ýou accept this invitation, I will take it to mean that you swear likewise.
Tonight, at sixth watch, approach the castle along the southern road. Bring your ten and whatever personal weaponry you feel you must. Dinner will be served as soon as you arrive.
The letter was signed in the florid hand of Antonias, and it bore the seal of Vingaard. When the note was arrowed to him, Antonias himself had been standing upon the battlements, flanked by a pair of trumpeters, smiling.
Vinas’s arm went tighter around Luccia as he placed the vellum before them on the table.
It settled atop an elevation map that showed where the four sets of sappers had dug to within ten feet of breaking into the castle. Beside the note were other scraps of parchment – sketches of the nine siege towers waiting just out of view on each of the three roads that converged on the keep. There were also estimates of what damage had been done by the catapults and trebuchets that had been battering the curtain wall and smashing buildings within. Now, amid all that attack and destruction lay a simple invitation to dinner.
“I don’t know,” said Luccia, pressing up against Vinas. “He must know how close we are to breaking through, so he might hope to surrender without more casualties... or he might hope to kill you outright to delay the escalade.”
Vinas shook his head. A slow smile was creeping across his face. He’d shaved his beard except for a long, drooping mustache. “Killing me would delay nothing. He knows that. Gaias would be all the more ruthless in storming the place.”
“A ransom, though,” Luccia speculated, “that would make sense.”
Vinas shrugged. It would make sense, yes, but in the last month, he had become reacquainted with his deeper instincts. Luccia was the reason for that. He had learned to trust his gut feelings over any logical argument. “I’m going. It feels right. Emperor Emann would cut the throat of a guest, yes, but not this man. Not Antonias.”
“Are you sure?”
“You said it yourself. I’ll not win the hearts of Vingaard by smashing their chosen lord to the floor. I might, however, win them over by dining with them.” He sighed and shook his head ruefully, remembering once again the story of the noble huntsman sinking his final arrow into the magic boar. “How was it, Luce, that we so quickly became the villains in this war?”
Meus Pater
Father, you used to read me a story about a noble huntsman and a boar. Let me now tell you a story.
Once there was a young man who inherited three treasures from his father – three treasures in three locked chests.
The first chest was large and very heavy. It was marked “TALENTS,” and it was filled with gold and platinum and electrum coins, a fortune that could buy him the world.
The second chest was larger and heavier still. It was marked “COMPASSION,” and it was filled with countless magic rings. Each ring let the wearer feel the emotions of one person or creature in the world.
The third chest was the largest and heaviest of all. It was marked “HONOR,” and what it held, not even the young man knew.
You see, the young man had two keys, one for the box marked “TALENTS,” and the other for the box marked “COMPASSION.” But his father had not given him a key to the box marked “HONOR.” His father had said that talents were meant to be used, and compassion was something meant always to be at hand and available in plenty. But honor was a thing too easily squandered. To have it, the young man must find his own key to open the box.
The young man took the large, heavy treasure chest of talents and carefully, wisely, spent it. For each talent he spent, he received title to a man’s parcel of land. In so doing, he came to possess the world.
Then, the young man took the larger, heavier chest of compassion. One at a time, he placed each ring upon his finger so he could understand the hopes and fears of all the people and creatures in his world. When he was done, he loved them all, and became a great ruler, a champion of justice.
He went out into his world, then, taking the final box with him and searching for a key to open it. Wherever he went, he commanded his people to bring every key they had and to try each in the lock. Many people offered to break the box open for him, but the young man refused, for violence could not be the key to honor. In ten years, he crossed the whole world but did not find the key to honor.
He thought, they are hiding it from me. I will find it yet.
He went out into his world again, this time taking also his chest of compassion. When his people brought to him more keys, he found a ring for each person and slipped it on his finger, searching their hearts to see if they hid a specia
l key from him. Many offered again to break the box open, but the aging man refused. In twenty years, he crossed his whole world twice but he did not find the key to honor.
He thought, I own the world, and I own the hearts of all who dwell in it, and still I cannot find the key to honor? How can a man with no honor rule a world and all its hearts?
So he went out into his world again, this time taking along also his chest of talents, full of deeds. He called his people to him, one by one, and gave each of them the deed to a parcel of land and the ring to each of their hearts. And he said to them, “I have not found the key to honor, and I cannot rule this world or the hearts of her people if I have no honor.” Many offered again to break the box open, but the old man refused. In forty years, he had gone through all the world three times, and by now was a very, very old man. Now, he had only the three chests, two of which were empty, and the other, which could not be opened.
He thought, once the world was mine, and all the creatures in it. Now, my talents are gone, my compassion spent, and I have nothing to give my son except this box I cannot open.
But when his hand touched the box it sprung open, and he saw that it held two locked chests, one marked “TALENTS” and the other “COMPASSION,” and a key for each chest.
He thought, now I understand. Honor is not something to be spent or used, but to be kept. The key to honor is to keep it, always, and pass it on as a heritage to one’s son. How glad I am I never tired of the burden and broke the chest open!
He carefully lifted out the large, heavy chest marked “TALENTS” and the larger, heavier chest marked “COMPASSION,” so that the largest chest of all, “HONOR,” was empty and terribly light. But when he closed the lid and locked it again, the chest was once again the heaviest of them all.
Then he called his son and said to him, “Son, I am very old, and I want you to have these three treasures....”
XII
That Night, 15 Mishamont, 1200 Age of Light
Vinas and Luccia, side by side, led a mounted procession up the road toward the castle.
The two wore their finest silks and brocades, with chain mail secreted beneath. Their long capes of red velvet gathered snowflakes as the evening sky gathered stars. They wore also their normal complement of weapons – a sword, a belt knife, and a boot dagger.
Behind them rode five others, including two bodyguards, whom Luccia had insisted on. The guards were garbed in the black of their station. They bore an arsenal of weaponry, though Vinas had instructed them not to draw first blood. He had also insisted they wash any poisons from their blades.
Behind the two guards rode Chancellor Titus and his highly regarded acolyte, Anistas. Last of all was Anistas’s beloved, Barnabas, who had been among the attackers outside Caergoth. Vinas had invited the young man because he could attest to the commander’s strict but fair treatment of the vanquished.
Seven was a large enough company for Vinas, though he could have brought ten.
“We’ll get to eat the others’ portions,” Titus had said in approval.
The seven rode in silence. Their horses seemed the only solid things in a world of snow, twinkling starlight, and lazy, distant campfires. The castle ahead was the gray-blue shade of twilight, and it seemed to recede into the night. The portcullis hung open, just high enough that the riders wouldn’t have to duck or dismount to pass within. The huge double door beyond was also open. Ten guardsmen stood on either side of the gate, their faces grave in the fierce light of their torches.
Vinas thought briefly of crossbow fire, target holes, and boiling water, but dismissed such things. There would be a million ways to die tonight. Already the sharpshooters could have killed them all. If Antonias had planned death for them, it would come later.
The Ergothians trotted onto a very solid drawbridge, and on across to the short platform where the warriors stood. Without slowing, Vinas and Luccia passed among the soldiers.
“Good evening, warriors. We are here for a dinner parley.”
The guard captain needlessly waved them through. The moment the visitors were within, the guards withdrew into the arched gate, and the portcullis began its rattling descent.
Vinas rode on through the open doors and into a stony courtyard. The small space, edged with guard houses and a curved stable, would have been quaint except for the signs of recent bombardment. What had once been a livery beside the stable was now a mess of splintered and charred wood. The boulder that had destroyed the spot lay shattered atop the remains. Another strike had pulverized the ancient mosaic set in the center of the courtyard.
“May I take your horses?” asked a stableman.
“Certainly,” Vinas replied, pulling Courage to a halt and dismounting while the rest of his party did likewise.
Vinas studied the castle, it was as the maps had depicted it. A huge central keep dominated the site. The keep was sided by barracks and practice grounds. The armory lay beneath the castle.
There were five other towers. The shortest and shabbiest was the abode of the archwizard, a structure huddling in eccentric disrepair near the keep. The other four stood along the curtain, marking the cardinal directions. The dark, long shed behind the keep was the winery, and the ancient chapel of Mishakal should stand right...
There. A pile of snow-choked rubble lay in the spot that should have held the oldest chapel to Mishakal in western Ansalon.
Vinas had a bitter taste in his mouth as he said to the stableman, “Show us where we might find Antonias Leprus.”
“You have found him,” said the man.
Only then did Vinas look over to see that the smallish, black-haired man was in fact the traitor, himself. After a moment’s shocked stare, Vinas recovered, saying, “Forgive me —”
“We don’t stand on ceremony here, Commander Solamnus,” said Antonias, “much the reason I was glad to be cast out of the senate and made duke of this fringe land.”
“Duke? I thought you would prefer to call yourself king,” said Vinas, sounding more combative than he felt.
The black-bearded man shrugged in dismissal. “We do not stand on ceremony. Call me Antonias.”
“Well,” Vinas replied, “as long as we are giving introductions, this is Colonel Luccia —”
“Ah, yes,” said Antonias, “of the famed Ergothian griffon company.” He shook her hand, equal to equal. “We detected your scouts only a month before your ground forces arrived. I imagine they were here much sooner.”
She colored slightly. When he dropped her hand, she curtsied before she could restrain herself. “Thank you for the compliment.”
Antonias was not finished, “And this must be Chancellor Titus, who helped you foil that assassination all those years ago.”
Titus took the man’s hand and heartily shook it. Standing this close, Titus could almost stare straight down at the man. “So good to meet the one man in Ansalon who would stand against Emperor Emann!”
Vinas coughed into his hand, and said, “Priests of Paladine are forgiven treason more easily than us.”
Antonias laughed at that. He reached up and slapped Titus on the side – he couldn’t stretch to reach the giant’s back. “Perhaps I should convert.”
Titus laughed heartily, too, as though he and the self-styled king were longtime friends.
Vinas, unsettled by the turn of events, introduced Anistas and Barnabas and his bodyguards. He then glanced at the dark sky. “Now, what about this famous Castle Vingaard fare? I must admit to being famished.”
“Follow me,” said Antonias. He turned his back upon the armed company. It occurred to Vinas that the man had no personal guard with him, and that his nearest soldiers were a good thirty paces away.
If I were a certain sort of man, Vinas thought, I might have harvested that dark head. He smiled to himself. Until about a month ago, until a certain kiss from a certain longtime friend, I was in danger of becoming that sort of man.
He walked up beside Antonias. “What sort of kingdom are you runni
ng here? You rebel against the most powerful empire the world has ever known, and yet you put up little fight when we march in to surround your castle. You then tell us to make ourselves at home and avail ourselves of the local pubs and inns. Last of all, you invite us into your own castle, meet us as if you were a stableman, and turn your back on our daggers and swords.”
Antonias didn’t even turn around. He continued leading the group toward the keep. “I suppose I don’t know what kind of kingdom this is, or what kind of king I am,” he confessed. “I suppose I thought that if my people were happy, I wouldn’t need to work so hard to keep them from harming each other.”
“True,” Vinas said, “but you forgot about all the unhappy people from all the unhappy nations in the rest of this unhappy world. Can you afford not to safeguard yourself when you live in a world of violence and evil?”
Antonias came to an arched door in the side of the keep. He turned a key in the large, iron lock, and swung the door wide to reveal a stairway. “You seem to forget. I tried the killing way at the battle of the Crossing. All that got me was a field of dead countrymen and slain elven allies. Oh, and, yes, a months-long poisoning of these very waters with the dead horses of your wagons. It was a grave, grave error for us to try to equal Ergoth in killing might. That is why I withdrew my troops from the canyon. That is why we did not resist you as you came down our roads and killed our pigs and stripped our orchards.”
Vinas followed the king up a long, winding set of stairs. “So, you chose not to fight. But what of your beautiful kingdom? Ergoth has already taken back every inch of it, except this castle.”
Sadly, Antonias said, “‘The peaceable kingdom will be taken by violent men, and the violent bear it away.’”
