Legacy of Steel

by Mary H. Herbert

  Then, just before he was to take his final vows, she violated the knighthood's Code by kidnapping Steel and trying to turn him back to the light. Her plan did not work, and she lost him at last.

  Sara stopped so abruptly that her horse bumped into her back. Fiercely she wiped her eyes with her sleeve to erase the evidence of her pain. Those years were long over, she told herself. There was nothing left worth crying about.

  She forced herself to move again. She didn't want to stand around all night like a lost child. Without conscious thought, her feet carried her through the streets past the gatehouse in the Old City Wall and into the older section of Palanthas. Lights flickered in many houses around her as night settled over the city. Before her thoughts had caught up with the present, Sara found herself standing by the edge of a wide expanse of green lawn that flowed comfortably, like an invitation, toward an elegant building built of white marble. Sara recognized it immediately: the Temple of Paladine.

  Aslow smile spread over her face. She had been to this temple before to give thanks for salvation, and once or twice to find Steel. There was a bench, a marble seat, he had loved. It used to sit… over there, under a tree. Sara could not see it in the dark, but she knew where it Should be.

  Leading the horse, she walked across the smooth, grassy lawn to the aspen tree she remembered and tied the horse to the gray trunk. The stone bench still sat there, unchanged, unmoved by the years that had passed.

  Weary with the ache of her memories, Sara sank down on the cool stone. Her hand touched the back of the bench and felt the outline of the frieze carved into the marble It was that simple, rather crude carving that Steel had liked so much, perhaps because of the simplicity of emotions it portrayed.

  Nothing in Steel Brightblade's life had been simple— not his birth, not his childhood, not his maturity. From the moment of his birth, he had been torn by the conflicting desires represented by his blood mother, the Dragon Highlord Kitiara Uth Matar, and by his father, the Solamnic Knight and hero Sturm Brightblade.

  Sara saw the struggle of the light and the dark in his soul every hour of every day. She did not know what happened that last day when Steel met the god Chaos and died; she only hoped that by then her beloved child had found his peace.

  Her fingers lightly traced the outlines of the carving that portrayed the funeral of a knight. The frieze pictured the knight lying on a bier, his arms folded across his chest. His shield leaned against the side of the bier. Twelve knightly escorts stood on either side of the knight's body, every one stern and solemn.

  Steel had never told her what he saw in those simple images, but Sara guessed it was the honor paid the dead knight, the courage implicit in his life, and the peace of his death—things she hoped Steel found for himself in the Battle of the Rift.

  Sara smiled to herself in the darkness, a sad, slow smile of remembering.

  Her horse by the aspen snorted in alarm and lunged back against his rope. The tree swayed, showering Sara with bits of bark and a few twigs.

  A voice, cool and pleasant, said, "Good evening. We did not mean to startle you."

  Sara raised her head and saw two figures standing in the darkness, perhaps ten paces away. There was just enough starlight for her to see that one was a handsome man of indeterminate age and solid build. The other was a woman, slender, elegant, as beautiful and enduring as the temple itself.

  Sara recognized the woman immediately, the Revered Daughter Crysania, High Priestess of the Temple of Paladine, leader of the god's faithful on Ansalon. The other she had never seen before. Sara rushed to her feet and hurried to her horse's head, too embarrassed to speak.

  The old bay jerked on his rope, his eyes rolling white with nervousness.

  The man bent toward his fair companion and spoke softly in her ear. She nodded, leaning into his support with warm familiarity.

  "Forgive us for startling you," the priestess said to Sara. "So few come to the temple anymore. I was pleased to know someone was making use of our grounds. It is getting late. Is there anything I can do for you?"

  Sara hesitated, unsure of what to say.

  Crysania stood, waiting patiently, her hand lightly resting on the man's arm. Her eyes, blind to the world of men, gazed sightlessly into the darkness. "My friend says you are a woman, and I hear your light step and the rustle of your skirts. Do I know you?"

  "Not well, Revered Daughter," Sara said faintly. "I met you once or twice many years ago when I lived here with my adopted son. My name is Sara."

  Lady Crysania spoke softly to her companion, who inclined his head. He smiled at her, then kissed her hand and walked away, leaving the two women alone in the darkness. The priestess walked to the stone bench, found the edge with her fingers, and sat down. She gestured for Sara to join her.

  Closer now, Sara could see how little Crysania had changed since she saw the priestess for the first time nearly twenty years ago. Her hair was still black, netted in silver, with little gray to mark the passage of years, Her pale skin, though etched by the trials of her past, remained ageless, as enduring as the marble of the temple.

  Sara sat down on the edge of the bench. She wasn't afraid, but she felt uncomfortable, almost guilty, to be sitting so close to the High Priestess of Paladine's temple. While she had never accepted the precepts of Takhisis or taken the blood oath, she had served Lord Ariakan for years and still carried the uncleanliness of those years in her soul. Although Paladine was gone, Sara couldn't help but feel the blessedness of his temple and the grace of his cleric, and she wondered what Crysania would think if the knew Sara's past.

  "What brought you to these grounds, to this particular bench?" asked Lady Crysania softly.

  The thought of lying to the priestess never crossed Sara's mind. "Memories. My son, my adopted son, used to come here to sit on this bench. He would sit and day-dream… ." Her voice tapered off.

  Sara caught a glint of a smile on the lady's face. "I know you now," Crysania said. "You were the mother of Steel Brightblade. Sara… Sara Dunstan." She hesitated, her sight turned inward. "Steel came here that horrible summer. He and Palin Majere." She laughed quietly, her voice musical. "They did not intend to. They were looking for the Tower of High Sorcery."

  Sara tried to stifle a gasp and failed. She leaned forward, eager to hear more. "Why the tower?"

  "You don't know?"

  "I know very little of Steel's last five years, Revered Daughter," Sara replied, the regret obvious in her words. "After I…. failed him, he took the oath of the dark knighthood, and for both our sakes, he did not try to contact me again."

  The priestess smiled, her expression warm and comforting. "You did not fail him. Nor he us."

  Sara stiffened. "How do you know?"

  Crysania laid a hand over Sara's cold fingers. "I have listened and learned much since that night Steel was here, and I have come to the realization that what Steel did in the Abyss was not for Takhisis or Paladine, but because he felt it was the right thing to do. And that, I think, he got from you."

  Sara sat stiff and silent. She had never learned the details of Steel's death, only that he had died a hero. Her tears, already close to the surface, brimmed over her eyes and slid silently down her cheeks. "Tell me," She whispered.

  The priestess's fingers tightened over Sara's, and she began to tell her about the night Steel and Palin made their way to the Shoikan Grove and the Tower of High Sorcery. "Palin was Steel's prisoner, and for his ransom he was to take Steel to the tower and open the Abyss." With those words, Crysania took Sara through the terrible days of the Chaos War to the last day when the sun burned endlessly in the sky and the ocean boiled and fearsome battle waged between the Father of All and of Nothing, his immortal godchildren, and the peoples of Krynn.

  "Palin told me about that day. He said Steel and a few of his men were the only survivors of Lord Ariakan's mighty force left at the ruins of the High Clerist's Tower They joined a remnant of Solamnic Knights and flew their dragons to the rift to challenge
Chaos, knowing this battle would be their last." She felt Sara move slightly and she paused, waiting for her companion to speak.

  "He died the way he wanted to," Sara murmured. Deep in melancholy, she swallowed hard against her tight, dry throat and whispered, "If only I could do the same"

  Crysania turned her sightless eyes to her companion's face, Her inner sight, sharpened by years of struggle, looked beyond Sara's words to the recesses of her heart, "You do not wish to die. It is not in you."

  Sara shifted her shoulders in a slight motion of denial. "I feel so empty. Since Steel died, there has been nothing for me to believe in."

  "Perhaps you are not ready yet to accept something else. Keep your mind open. Even without the gods, things have a way of working out."

  Sara barely nodded.

  The two women sat silently together in the darkness, each examining her own thoughts. Behind them, the old horse had finally settled down. He whiffled his nostrils and shifted his weight from one hind leg to the other. To the east, the single pale moon shed its silvery light on the tops of the eastern peaks.

  "Lady," said Sara after a while, "I came to Palanthas to learn the truth about a rumor I heard concerning the Knights of Takhisis. Perhaps you know. Are they regrouping?"

  Crysania turned a troubled face to Sara and replied, "I've heard those rumors, too. Those and more. But I cannot say for a certainty that they are true. The Council of the Last Heroes did grant the knights control of the land around Neraka, and I know some Dark Knights have been leaving Palanthas to go there. It is probably the only safe place left for them these days. Beyond that, I do not know. Perhaps," she added with a half-smile, "someone should go to Neraka to find out."

  "Perhaps," Sara echoed faintly.

  "But for now—" Lady Crysania rose, "—let me offer you the hospitality of our house. There is room for your horse in the stable and ample room for you in our guest house. Many rooms in our temple buildings stand empty now. Do not feel you are putting anyone out."

  "Thank you, Revered Daughter," Sara said gratefully. "I will accept."

  The priestess rose gracefully to her feet and waited while Sara untied the horse and patted his neck. Unerringly she led Sara and her horse across the temple grounds to the rear, where the stable, kitchen, and dormitories were located. There she bade Sara good night and left her in the care of an elderly cleric.

  Sara spent eight more days in the city by the bay. She found a booth to rent in the market district and set up her wares to sell. Although the quality was good and the craftsmanship excellent, people were not buying luxury items readily.

  Bootjack was right, Sara quickly discovered. Palanthas was not quite the same. Too many people had left died; too many businesses had closed. Because the great library was virtually empty and the temples were redundant without gods to serve, the influx of visitors, students, and those seeking work in the city had slowed to a trickle. Without a growing population to support the economy, the city's treasury, already strained by the war and expensive repairs to the docks and major buildings, was running low. People were cautious, careful of their money and their words.

  Nevertheless, Sara stuck with her intentions. By day, she opened her booth, and while she had to drop some of her prices, she slowly sold all but a few items. In the evenings, she went from one inn to another, to taverns and public parks, to the docks and the playhouses, listening and asking guarded questions to garner any bit of information she could about the Knights of Takhisis. Here, she had little success. Few people wanted to talk about the Dark Knights. Mostly she heard complaints and bitter accusations levied against the occupation force that had held the city until the Battle of the Rift or against individual knights who had turned to banditry and murder since then. No one seemed to know or care if the knights were re-forming in Neraka.

  Eight days after she arrived in Palanthas, Sara realized with a start of disappointment that she had been gone thirteen days. She had promised Cobalt she would be back in fourteen; now she would be late, and there was no telling how he would react. She wasn't certain whether to be discouraged or relieved at her lack of information. Was no news good news? Or were the knights keeping their dark secrets carefully hidden?

  That evening she closed her booth and packed her belongings in the panniers. She knew it would be safer to leave Palanthas with a caravan again, but she couldn't find any merchants or travelers who were leaving for Daron the next day. She made up her mind to go anyway and hope she could find someone on the trail.

  Early the next morning, with Crysania's blessings and a stocked food bag, Sara led her horse out of Palanthas and hurried north on the trail for home.

  8

  A cold, blustery wind swept up the mountain trail sweeping golden aspen leaves and dust before it. Sara put up with it for a few hours, then changed out of her skirts into a pair of durable pants that were not only warmer but also easier to wear on the steep slopes. With her hair braided under her loose knit hat and a heavy cloak over her tunic, she looked more like a man than a woman.

  She had seen no one else that day but a few shepherds with their flocks in the distance and a small party of travelers trekking south to Palanthas. There was no one in sight going north. Sara mentally shrugged and pushed on. Cobalt was waiting, and she didn't want to worry the dragon into doing something stupid.

  The day passed uneventfully, and Sara found a sheltered place to camp for the night. She passed the iron mines the following day, and still she found no other travelers heading toward Daron.

  Except for the possibility of danger from thieves and highwaymen, Sara actually preferred solitary travel. She liked picking her own pace suitable to her horse and herself; she liked the dust-free air and the tranquility of the mountains, without shouting drovers, bellowing beasts of burden, complaining merchants, and whining servants. She did not have to carry on meaningless conversations with companions she did not like or waste endless time waiting for the caravan to get ready to move. The only thing she missed was the time spent by the campfires at night, when instruments were inevitably brought out and musicians played rollicking tunes for hours to enliven the cold mountain nights.

  She crossed the pass safely during an afternoon of gathering clouds and gusty winds, and that night a light snow began to fall. Snow was still falling in the morning when Sara packed her gear and fed her horse. She eyed the sky warily, for no one in her right mind wanted to be caught on the open mountain trails in an autumn snowstorm. Fortunately the clouds seemed tattered and the wind brisk, leading her to hope the snow showers would end soon.

  She filled her water bag from a nearby stream and loaded one of the panniers with dry firewood from a sheltered deadfall. If she were forced to stop somewhere unprotected, she wanted to be prepared. Clucking to her horse, she headed down the mountain.

  The snow did end soon, several times. It was one of those days when the sky was a swiftly moving panorama of brilliant sun and dark clouds and intermittent showers of sparkling snow. Cloud shadows scudded over the mountain faces, pushed by a capricious cold wind.

  A snow shower had just ended, as abruptly as it began, when the hairs on Sara's neck began to prickle in that uncanny warning she well remembered. Someone was watching her.

  Sara's head went up, and her eyes moved along the stony slopes around her. She was walking on an open section of the trail that hugged the side of the hill. There were no trees or large stone outcroppings for cover. There was nowhere she could hide, and nowhere anyone else could hide to ambush her. Yet she still felt the presence of someone close by.

  Her pulse quickened. Her right hand slid closer to her bow that hung from one of the panniers. She kept walking beside the horse, trying to look casual, as if she had no hint of danger. The sun burst out of the clouds at that moment, its bright light dazzling after the snow squall.

  Something moved to Sara's right. She spun around in time to see a patch of snowy grass and vines suddenly thrown aside to reveal a hole dug in the earth. A man in dirty
armor burst out of the hole and lunged at her, a sword in his hand. He was too close for her to use her bow, so Sara snatched her dagger from its sheath, and before the man could lay a hand on her, she flipped off her cloak and slid beyond his reach. Her reflexes may have slowed from age, but her speed and her balance were finely tuned from years of practice.

  Her attacker, expecting slow, easy prey, met instead a furious dagger-wielding opponent. His heavily bearded face registered surprise. Then he sneered and moved in to disarm her. Pulling his lips back over broad, yellow teeth, he raised the blade of his sword and brought it whistling around to strike her arm.

  Sara heard shouts behind her from several directions, and she realized she needed more than a mere dagger to defend herself. Instead of ducking her assailant, she slipped under his blade, dipped her shoulder, and crashed into his belly. He grunted in surprise. His sword whistled over her head.

  Her blade slipped under his armpit, where the breastplate ended, and rammed deep into his flesh and muscle. Sara wrenched it out and stabbed again. The man howled with pain.

  Sara rolled over him as he crashed to the earth, then bounced to her feet, snatched the sword from his weakened grasp, and spun on her heel to meet the other attackers.

  There were three more, all as lean and hungry as wolves, all dressed in ill-kept armor. Shocked by the fall of their comrade, they slunk forward, studying Sara warily.

  "Look" one of them shouted in surprise. "It's a woman!"

  Sara dodged behind her horse and grinned wickedly at the men. Her hat had been knocked off in the struggle with the first brigand, and now her braid swung loose like a silver horse's tail.

  The old bay, panicked by the shouts and the smell of blood, reared in fright. One of the men tried to grab his headstall, but the gelding whipped his head aside and bolted away down the trail. Sara was left facing the three men.

  They slid to a stop and slowly edged around her until she was surrounded.