Lord of the Rose tros-1

by Douglas Niles

  Powell came to the small camp of the dwarf and gnomes, nodding to his fellow wayfarers as they offered him wishes for a good evening. A strange lot, that trio, the captain reflected. He had never known dwarves and gnomes to have so much to do with each other. Ah well, each to his own, he told himself, strolling past their backpacks. It was a surprisingly large assortment of baggage, he noted idly, feeling a little sorry especially for the two diminutive gnomes at thought of them carrying all that stuff on some undoubtedly lengthy trek.

  He stopped and looked back at the equipment. There were four backpacks there, you dolt, he realized. That wasn’t surprising in itself. Yet he had chatted with the dwarf earlier, and indeed they had been camped nearby for several hours now. Why hadn’t the fourth member of the party shown himself by now?

  That fourth backpack was a large satchel suited more to a human-a tall human-than to any dwarf or gnome. The Captain of the Rose turned about and knelt beside the pack. Yes, indeed there was a long object there, something wrapped in a cloak.

  “I say there, Cap’n? Is there something you want?” asked the dwarf, rising to his feet with hasty politeness.

  Powell was already pulling aside the cloak. He saw the gilded hilt, the gold-engraved L as he revealed a weapon that he recognized instantly.

  It was Giantsmiter, the sword of Lorimar. That meant the worst possible thing: the dread Assassin was nearby.

  Probably hiding out in the ruin of the old house.

  The old house where the Princess of Palanthas had just gone for a stroll.

  Coryn’s left hand clenched the edge of the table so tightly her knuckles turned as white as her pristine robe. Angrily she exhaled, a snort of sound startlingly loud in the silent chamber, then shook her head, a toss of black hair momentarily obscuring her view of the bowl of sparkling wine.

  She had to watch-she knew that much-even if she hated what she was now gazing upon. In her right hand, clutched so tightly that it was bending, was the miniature golden swordsman-the talisman of Jaymes Markham, the man most of Solamnia called Assassin. She could see certain events transpire in her bowl, but they were events beyond her influence, or her will. There was destiny at work here, a future affecting all the lands of the north.

  It was more than luck that brought the Princess of Palanthas to this place, she thought with a pang. It was indeed destiny, a fate woven into the very tapestry of the world. Coryn had dreaded this moment, known it might come, had known this for a long time. It was a meeting that had been foretold in certain of her auguries, even abetted by her own plans and schemes.

  If not her desires.

  Of course Selinda herself had made the choice to go exploring among the buildings where Jaymes had secluded himself. Coryn knew her-she was proud and inquisitive, smart and confident, but also naive.

  The wizard was startled by the flash of anger she felt. She recognized the emotion, in an intellectual sense, as jealousy even as she was startled by the flaming heat it raised in her breast.

  “She is too damned beautiful!” snapped the wizard, shaking her head once again.

  The image of Selinda du Chagne, lit from behind by the setting sun, glowed in her viewing bowl. Jaymes was dumbstruck and confused, staring at the gorgeous woman who had just discovered him, had him trapped like a cornered rat. He had a weapon, he had strength and speed. He could be past her, away from this place, in seconds.

  Coryn remembered his roughness. She wanted him to use it now against Selinda, but Jaymes wouldn’t, didn’t. He stood there, stock-still.

  In disgust Coryn waved a hand, and the image faded from the mirror, leaving the Scrying Room in darkness. The white wizard stood and paced through the chamber, knowing the exact dimensions even though she could not see the walls, the table, or her chair in the lightless confines. With a single word she could have illuminated the place as bright as daylight, but she was unwilling to utter that word.

  She would have to let things happen, she knew, let destiny take its course, but she didn’t have to suffer the watching.

  “You bastard,” she murmured, before composing herself and slowly, carefully, opening the door.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Confrontation In The cellar

  Who are you?” demanded the woman. She held the door wide, allowing the full intensity of the setting sun’s rays to fall upon the warrior, illuminating him like an actor on center stage. Jaymes held up a hand to shade his eyes, squinting but made no reply.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, her tone blunt.

  The swordsman could tell that she was young, probably not yet twenty, and while obviously startled, was unafraid. Certainly she made no move to run away. Instead, she stood in the open doorway, peering at him through the darkness of the shed.

  Jaymes shrugged, lowering the hand in which he held his dagger. “Just a wanderer,” he said. “I thought this would be a comfortable place to spend the night. I was getting ready to go to sleep-I’ve covered a lot of ground today, and I have to admit I’m tired.”

  “You’re lying,” she said calmly. She surprised him by stepping into the shed and, even more shocking, pulling the door shut behind her. “You’re traveling with that dwarf and those gnomes, the ones camping in the apple grove, aren’t you?”

  He peered at her silhouette against the faint steak of daylight coming through the crack in the door frame. He could make out a halo of golden hair. Beyond that he could discern few details: She was taller than average for a woman, and though she had a cape hanging off of her shoulders he guessed that she was slender.

  She was courageous. Foolish, perhaps, but also very brave-of that there could be no doubt.

  Her voice was confident, even arrogant and a little amused. It was the voice of a person who was used to issuing orders without having to worry whether or not those commands would be obeyed. It was the voice of a noblewoman.

  Jaymes guessed she was traveling with the company of knights he had earlier observed. It occurred to him that she might be the reason for that large company, that she was important enough to warrant a sizeable and well-armed escort.

  But she was still youthful, and acted as though this was some kind of thrilling adventure for her. She was overconfident in the way of one who had never experienced anything terrible. She conveyed a sense of secret delight, as if it pleased her mightily to be away from her escort, and to have discovered him here.

  It was altogether confusing, and he felt at a loss. A part of him wanted to rush past her, throw open the door, and race away into the gathering dusk. He wasn’t entirely sure why he declined that course of action, but the greater part of him felt no urge to run.

  With what he hoped was a subtle gesture, he slipped his knife through his belt at the small of his back and held out his empty hands, palms displayed, before him. Still, he said nothing

  “I asked you, what are you doing here, why are you hiding?” she said.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he replied. “Is it so incredible that I’d simply prefer a roof over my head?”

  She sniffed. “There are lots of roofs around here. Why would you choose a place that smells so bad to make your bed? Or is that you I smell?” she added.

  He blinked. “My turn. Who are you?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “Just a traveler, like you. I know this place-my father used to send me here when I was a girl. My mother and I would take trips to the plains. We would come here to the apple farm, then go to Lord Lorimar’s estate to stay for a fortnight at the end of summer. Of course, that was a long time ago, but when we came back through here and made camp in the grove, I felt a pang of nostalgia and decided I wanted to have a look around.”

  His vision, temporarily obscured by the brightness when she first opened the door, had begun to make out a beautiful woman with rounded cheeks and large, inquisitive eyes. The sunlight striking her hair colored it like spun gold. The swelling of her bosom beneath the cape suggested a pleasing form. Her head was held high as she stepped toward
him.

  “You said your father would send you from your home to the plains? From where is that, may I ask?” he asked.

  “I live in Palanthas.”

  “He did not bring you himself? Why not?”

  She shrugged, and for the first time there appeared a slight fissure in that self-confident facade. “I don’t know. He had important business in the city-he always has work that keeps him busy. That didn’t prevent me from doing some traveling. I had a good friend who lived in a manor on these plains. I would visit Dara Lorimar every summer.”

  “You are more than a mere traveler, Lady,” Jaymes ventured. “You carry yourself like royalty. You are certainly brave-for all you know, I could be a robber, a common thief, or even worse.”

  “There are some who say you are worse. Much worse,” she said dryly.

  Jaymes shifted warily. Somehow she knew who he was, though how she had made that identification was beyond him.

  “Oh, I recognized that dwarf,” she explained. “I saw him before, in the Gnome Ghetto of Caergoth. I was watching through a spyglass when the knights tried to capture you there. When Coryn the White whisked you away. When you killed that knight, cut off the hand of another one. They say it was you who killed Lord Lorimar and his daughter-my friend. Oh, I know exactly who you are or who you are supposed to be. You are the Assassin.”

  “You know all that, and you’re not afraid?” Jaymes asked. “What makes you think I won’t kill you then?”

  She stood blocking the door. Every muscle in the warrior’s body was twitching, urging him to make a dash, attack, hide, do something. Yet he stood there like a trapped deer, quivering, nostrils flaring. The woman before him was a slender reed, beautiful, truly, but obviously he could overcome her. Yet the warrior was unwilling to shove her aside and make his escape.

  “Maybe you will kill me yet,” she said, her voice even, still unafraid. “Then we will surely know, won’t we? We’ll know that you’re a cold-blooded murderer who would shed the blood of a woman with no regret. Who will do whatever he needs to do to get what he wants. ‘This is the Assassin,’ they will all cry, and Captain Powell and his men will hunt you down and kill you.”

  “That would be a little late for you, don’t you think?”

  She shrugged. “I say to myself, what if they are wrong? What if you are not the one who killed the lord and Dara?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “Lady Coryn. I know her, and I saw her help you in Caergoth, help you escape the very knights who serve the nobility of Solamnia. For ten years she has been an ally of our noble houses, helping to make this land strong and righteous again. She has risked her life many times to drive the Dark Knights out of Palanthas, to banish the beasts of Khellendros from the northern coasts. I have wondered why she would help you.”

  “Well, she was my lover, once,” he said harshly, more harshly than he intended. “She has a tender spot for me.”

  “Oh.” Finally something seemed to take her by surprise. Those large eyes widened, then narrowed. Her voice, when next she spoke, was cold. “Except I don’t believe you.”

  “Believe what you want,” he said. “I don’t care.”

  He was eyeing the door, again considering the notion of pushing her out of the way and making a run for it, when loud male voices reached them. Many knights were approaching.

  “Lady Selinda!”

  “Your Highness?”

  “Princess! Where are you?”

  “What, you’re the daughter of Du Chagne?” he asked, astonished. “You are the Princess of Palanthas?”

  She looked around in alarm then fastened her large eyes on the warrior. She was still remarkably unafraid. He stared back at her, waiting to see what this surprising creature was going to do next.

  “Come here!” she said, pulling open the door and gesturing to him. “I know a place where you’ll be safe-trust me.”

  Jaymes hesitated. Why should he trust her? The answer was obvious: With a single scream, she could bring doom down upon him.

  “This way,” she said urgently. “Hurry!”

  With those words to prod him, he followed her through the door. They emerged from the shed to see that none of the knights had reached the rear of the building yet. “This way!” she said, ducking her head and running. She moved with speed and grace in her leggings, and the warrior had to hurry to keep up with her.

  Selinda led him along the back of the house, ignoring the shouts that grew more insistent-and nearer. They came upon a horizontal trapdoor, leading into a compartment underneath the rear of the house. There was a rusty iron bolt atop the door, which the young woman kicked open then reached down to pull up the hatch.

  “This is a wine cellar,” the princess said. “There is a way out of here. You can escape through a tunnel, a long passage, that leads down to the bank of the stream. Hurry!”

  He paused, his natural wariness balking at the sight of the shadowy flight of steps. “How do you know that?” he asked.

  “I told you-I used to play here as a child. It was my favorite part of the whole estate. Now, go!”

  Jaymes looked at her, frowning. After only a moment’s further hesitation he plunged into the dark space beneath the trapdoor, slipping down the steep wooden set of stairs and coming to rest on his rump on a dusty floor. The momentary flash of light around him vanished as she dropped the door of the hatch back into place.

  He listened, expecting to hear the sound of approaching knights. Instead, he heard a metallic clunk and knew that the princess had fastened the outside lock on the door.

  “Don’t be such an old maid,” Selinda said, shaking her head in the face of Captain Powell’s anger-anger, she knew very well, fueled by his genuine concern for her.

  The knights had brought her hastily back to the camp, swords drawn, eyes wide as they explored the shadows to all sides. Despite her protests that she had not seen anything untoward, they acted as if they had snatched her from a menace in hot pursuit. They jostled her along so roughly that she arrived in the safety of the camp huffing for breath, her hair and garments in disarray.

  Fortunately, in their eagerness to get her away from the ruins none of them had examined the rear of the house. She had been able to slip away from the trapdoor before she met her “rescuers,” so none of them spotted a hatch, its rusty iron bolt in place. The Assassin, as she had known he would, had refrained from making any noise that would have attracted their attention.

  “This is the Sword of Lorimar!” the Captain of the Rose spluttered, gesturing to the tall blade that now lay on the table in his command tent. “That means that the Assassin is nearby somewhere! By Joli, if you had met him near that old ruin, you could have suffered the same fate as Lorimar’s daughter!”

  “I appreciate your diligence, Captain. Your men made haste to find me and bring me to safety. Surely the crisis is past.”

  “That is not the point-nor is the danger past,” fumed Powell. “From now on, you will stay safely behind in the camp where we can keep an eye on you. As to that wretched murderer, I can only suspect he’s miles away by now. A cur like that would certainly flee at the approach of a company of knights.”

  “What about those you suspect of being his companions-the dwarf and gnomes? Surely he would not abandon them?”

  The captain of knights shook his head. “That was my failing, Princess. When I found the sword, my thoughts were all of you and your immediate peril. I led the men to seek you and bring you back. I left only a skelton few on guard here. By the time we returned, those rascals had slipped away into the dusk. I can’t spare the men to chase after them in the dark, not when the real villain is out there somewhere.”

  “He is the real villain, that warrior?” Selinda inquired. “Has the evidence been presented to a lord or a knightly council?”

  “The evidence is plain, my lady!” Powell declared in exasperation, pointing to the sword. “That is the mark of Lorimar on the hilt. Giantsmiter is a unique weapon
-the flaming blade of the gods, it has been called. When that fire is blazing, it can cut through stone, metal, anything. Witness how it felled the knights in Caergoth who went to arrest him!”

  She frowned, thinking of that episode and its consequences. “Still, the circumstances of Lorimar’s death, and of his daughter’s, all the circumstances are somewhat murky, are they not? Is it known why this particular warrior wanted to slay them?”

  The captain looked serious, and very tired. He appeared ready to brush away her question but apparently decided upon frankness. “I myself knew of Sir Jaymes Markham, when Lorimar was still alive. He was a maverick Knight of the Rose, but for many years presumed to be loyal. For some reason he wormed his way into Lorimar’s confidence and into a position of responsibility in the lord’s House Guards. He is the only one to survive that dark evening-his badge and breastplate were found at the scene. He stole the sword, Giantsmiter. If he is innocent, why did he do that? Why wouldn’t he come forth to bear witness against the true killer?”

  Selinda frowned again, shrugging her shapely shoulders. “Perhaps you are right, or perhaps he had his reasons. There were others who desired Lorimar’s death, were there not?”

  Captain Powell winced. “There are stories, my lady, circulating all through the knighthood, of course. Lorimar was a wealthy man, and he was hated by some in the knighthood for writing the Compact of the Free and coercing the signatures of many powerful lords.”

  “I remember even my father complaining about it,” the princess noted.

  “Rathskell of Solanthus hated Lorimar. He wanted to court Lorimar’s daughter, but Lankford refused the match. He humiliated Thelgaard, too, when that lord tried to claim Garnet with some concocted fiction-Lorimar made him look like a fool.”

  “I always had the impression Lorimar was greatly admired,” Selinda said.