by Doug Niles
“Er, yes, lord, and no.” The aide de camp couldn’t help but blush—the wedding of the Duke of Solanthus to a much younger woman had been a scandal in Solamnia just the year before. “No, he claims that he cannot afford to leave his holdings, just now. A matter of revenues uncollected, I believe. I suspect it is his attempt to influence trade in Garnet.”
“Failures of revenue?” The lord mayor was outraged. “Why, he’s a rich as any three gods! He has the Stones of Garnet in his treasury, by Shinare’s sake! Well, never mind. I know how to hit him where it hurts!”
Du Chagne paced back and forth before his great windows, his heart pounding, his face flushed from his agitation.
“So the whole conference is delayed, for days, perhaps a fortnight, because of these stuffed up gamecocks?” he fumed. “I know just the thing to take them down a few pegs! Thwart my conference, will they? Dekage, take a letter.”
“Aye, my lord.” The baron hastened to the writing desk, drew out scrolls, quills, an inkwell and blotter. “I am ready, my lord.”
“Address two sheets, identical letters. The first: To His Excellency, Duke Jarrod of Thelgaard, Lord of the Crown, Keeper of the Great Plain, Heir to the Throne of the White Swan, etcetera, etcetera. Good, got that? The other copy should be addressed to His Excellency, Duke Rathskell of Solanthus, Lord of the Sword, Master of the Garnet Spur, Inheritor of the Silver Blade, Guardian of the Solamnic Code, etcetera, etcetera.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Write this: ‘Regarding the disposition of the disputed citystate, Garnet, recently liberated from the Dark Knights by forces under my overall command. Each of you claims it by historical precedent. Let it be known that it is my sincere wish that the place shall remain independent of any sovereign lord, as pledged in the Compact of Freedom.’ Yes.” He chuckled. “A free-market center to compete with each of those greedy bastards!” The lord mayor waved away the baron’s intention to copy these last words into the letter. “A little competition, taxes going to Palanthas of course, ought to make them sit up and take notice of their lord!”
“Quite, my lord,” the baron answered. “However—most unfortunately—I must remind you that the Compact of Freedom is currently … uh, missing. It was, you recall, in Lord Lorimar’s safe keeping at the time of his death. If it were the case that you could rule the plains from Palanthas by decree, Solamnia would surely be a greater realm, a place of loftier ideals and nobler accomplishments. Alas, this is a matter that can only be resolved by the council.”
“Blast their eyes—and damn that old charter! Bah, you’re right, I know. Very well, let us recast the letter.”
With a shrug, Baron Dekage crumbled the first letters and painstakingly set out fresh pages. The lord mayor paced and muttered as he tried to figure out what to say, while his aide surreptitiously—and anxiously—glanced across the table.
He was relieved to see he had brought plenty of blank paper.
The Duke of Caergoth stood at a table, glaring irritably. The surface before him was large and layered in green velvet. A stripe of blue silk twisted through the middle of the table like a river, and several heaps of cloth looked like miniature hills. Across the table were spread hundreds of tiny figures carved to look like knights, footmen, dwarven infantry, goblin hordes—all of them commanded by a few gloriously decorated lords mounted on horseback. The most resplendent of these, in silver armor and mounted upon a rearing black stallion, held the banner of Caergoth, a red rose on a field of blue, aloft on a standard.
Duke Crawford examined the position of the Evil Ones—his name for the enemy he faced on this make-believe battlefield. Today his army was challenged by a powerful but undisciplined horde. He had arranged an elaborate feint to draw the heavy infantry, a brigade of ogres, into range of his catapults, and he was preparing to unleash a devastating barrage. His own knights, armored and mounted on powerful chargers, waited behind a hill, ready for a smashing counterattack.
Only then did he feel the humming vibration in his stomach—the magical summons of his lord. He stepped to a small door in the side of his game room, pulled it open, and saw the outline of a pale glow by a small drape on the wall of the alcove. He hastened over and pulled the curtain aside to reveal an ornate crystal mirror—a mirror that was growing bright with magical illumination.
“My Lord Regent!” Crawford said. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”
Bakkard du Chagne’s dour image confronted him from the depths of the mirror. “Never mind that,” snapped the lord in Palanthas, his voice transported across the miles through the medium of magical mirrors in both places. “I have learned that both Solanthus and Thelgaard will be delayed in arriving for the conference.”
Crawford blinked. He—or rather, his staff—had been preparing for the conference for months on end, and he had not been expecting problems. “But … why?” he asked, finally.
“Pride, no doubt. Even arrogance,” snapped du Chagne. “Petty political maneuvering. The important thing is that we do not reward their posturing.”
“Um, yes,” Crawford agreed. “What do you want me to do?”
“My daughter is traveling there by royal galleon—she will be arriving in Caergoth within a matter of days. She will be hosting the conference, so you are to fete her as you would me—and let the tardy lords know when they arrive, that they have missed these signal honors.”
“Certainly, my lord.” The duke was dismayed to hear that the princess would be arriving so soon. He was within a week of having the Evil Ones utterly destroyed—and now the gods only knew how long it would be before he got back to his gaming table.
As if to further mock him, someone knocked firmly on the door.
“Go away! I’m busy with my general staff!” Duke Crawford barked.
“Beg pardon, my lord, but it’s urgent.” It was the stern voice of the duke’s veteran captain, Sir Marckus.
Crawford looked back to the mirror, as the lord regent gestured impatiently. “Go—but remember what I have said.”
“Of course, my Lord,” replied the duke, bowing, then pulling the drapery back across the mirror. He stepped out of the alcove and closed the door. “Very well—come in!” he snapped to his officer outside the room.
Marckus, with his impressive flowing mustache and impeccable uniform, opened the door and stood back so a messenger could enter. The man, smelling of wet horse, dashed into the room with his hat in his hand and bowed, ready to apologize to the gathered nobles and officers but blinking in surprise as he raised his head and saw only the duke.
“Speak, man!” demanded the lord, as the messenger stared in astonishment at the war game arranged on the table.
“Begging your Excellency’s pardon, but the harbor lookouts report that a convoy from Palanthas is approaching the port, ten stout galleons. They fly the flag of the princess—it must be the Lord Mayor’s daughter and her entourage.”
“By Joli, they’re not expected until the day after tomorrow!” The duke glanced at his tabletop in disappointment. “I had the Evil Ones outmaneuvered—would have annihilated the whole force by tomorrow morning! Now it will be weeks before I get back to such fun!” The duke sniffed, then called out, “Sir Marckus!”
“Yes, Excellency!” The knight captain stepped into the game room, snapping to attention.
“See to an honor guard immediately—to be in attendance on the docks as the Lady of Palanthas disembarks. Get the street sweepers busy—I want the whole avenue between here and the waterfront spotless. Have people turn out in a proper welcome—you know, lining all the walkways, balconies, that sort of thing.”
“Of course, Excellency. May I inquire as to the available time before her arrival?”
“Something less than an hour, so hop to it.”
“As you wish, my lord. If you will excuse me?” Somehow, the knight—a veteran officer of many battle campaigns—maintained his dignity as he marched away.
The ten ships of the Lord Regent’s fleet were lined at
the docks of Caergoth, sails furled, gangplanks lowered. The captain of the Palanthian Guards, Sir Powell, led the procession of knights, a score of whom had been transported, with horses, on each vessel. All two hundred of the detachment were formed up, in neat ranks.
Lady Selinda Du Chagne debarked to enthusiastic cheers from the adoring populace of Caergoth. At eighteen, she was a stunningly beautiful young woman, with high cheekbones and hair the color of fine-spun gold. She smiled as she came down the gangplank, waving as she climbed into the waiting carriage.
For the first time in years, the “Princess of Palanthas” had been allowed to leave her native city. Caergoth was, she saw at a glance, a quite different place: solid and down to earth, compared to the elegant but rigid and stifling city to the north.
For eighteen years, Palanthas had stifled Lady Selinda very much indeed.
She was met on the dock by Sir Marckus Haum, captain of the ducal guard. He bowed to her and saluted Captain Powell, the dour but capable knight in charge of Selinda’s escort. Moments later she was ensconced in an open carriage, rolling through the streets while the people lined three or four deep along the entire road from the waterfront to the castle. There was a naive enthusiasm in their uncritical shouts and cheers. Most of them had never heard of her a couple of hours earlier. At home Selinda was lucky if the jaded citizens of Palanthas took the trouble to move out of the way when her noble carriage traversed the streets.
Furthermore, she found the stone, square houses and shops of Caergoth comforting, reassuring. The place had a look of permanence about it, with broad walls sectioning off the neighborhoods of the city, ensuring that any attacker would have to fight his way through many gates before reaching the castle proper.
That vaulted edifice sat upon a commanding bluff overlooking the sheltered harbor. The steepness of the hill climbing away from the waterfront forced Lady Selinda to keep one hand firmly clenched around a support bar in her lurching carriage.
She observed the gleaming ranks of men-at-arms arrayed in compact formations in the broad square before the castle itself. There must be a thousand of them, she guessed, organized by arms: squares of pikemen, their tall weapons held high, straight ranks of archers with crossbows clutched at the ready, burly swordsmen in gleaming plate mail breastplates rigidly clasping their crimson shields over their hearts. A line of massive, steel-strapped catapults loomed behind the soldiers, an impressive array of artillery that looked capable of reducing a small castle to rubble with a single barrage.
Castle Caergoth loomed over her, more dominant, forbidding, and warlike than any structure in all of glorious Palanthas. Selinda couldn’t help but gawk at the tall turrets, arched bridges, immense palisades, and studded ramparts. Gray and scuffed across its vast faces, it looked more a product of nature than man.
Sir Marckus broke into a gallop and raced across the drawbridge. At the dock he had introduced himself as the duke’s representative and led the caravan of carriages and mounted knights through the city. The captain of her own escort, Sir Powell, rode along just behind Sir Marckus. It was impossible to imagine two more perfect symbols of the knighthood—the Code and the Measure practically oozed from their bodies like perspiration.
Now, within the gate, the two captains dismounted, stood aside, and saluted as Selinda’s driver lashed his horses and urged the carriage over the broad drawbridge and into the huge courtyard. Gray walls rose to all sides, but the effect was more exhilarating than confining. At least a thousand men at arms lined the parapets, and they all saluted together, clapping their clenched fists onto shields emblazoned with the crimson sign of the Rose.
More people cheered from lower balconies as the carriage came to a stop before a wide veranda. These were nobles and courtiers, Selinda reckoned, noticing silken tunics of many colors, lush fur cloaks on some of the ladies, and here and there, the glint of gold, silver, and other ornaments. She recognized one man in the golden robes of a Patriarch of Shinare, as he hurried forward to her coach.
“Bishop Issel—excuse me, Patriarch,” said the princess as the carriage door opened and she rose to step down. “I had heard of your promotion—the youngest temple master in all Solamnia! Congratulations!”
“I pray to the Winged Master that your father’s faith in me shall prove justified,” said the cleric, bowing humbly. He was a handsome man with a dazzling smile, and she extended her hand to him. “May much profit attend your councils here.”
“Thank you, Patriarch,” she said, hoping the goddess was listening.
One pair of nobles stood alone before the open doors of the great keep. Selinda recognized the duke and duchess, whom she had met when they visited Palanthas. Now they came forward.
“My lady!” gushed the Duchess of Caergoth. “I’m Lady Martha, if you recall. It is such an honor to have you visit!” The duchess was only a few years older than Selinda but giggled like a ninny as she curtsied. The princess recalled that Martha had married Duke Crawford only one year previously.
“Thank you, my lady,” replied Selinda graciously, as she had been taught. “It is an honor to enjoy your hospitality.”
“Princess,” said the duke, charming her with a dazzling smile as he offered his arm. “All Caergoth is delighted to welcome you—we will show you that here the Order of the Rose blooms like never before! But first, let us to show you to your apartments. Tonight there will be a welcome banquet in the great hall of the keep.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Selinda acknowledged, taking the nobleman’s elbow.
She was surprised when the duchess took her other arm and leaned close with another giggle. “I just know we’ll have a lot to talk about!”
The great house in Palanthas was shrouded in darkness. What illumination existed here glowed deep within the walls, shielded from any prying eyes. Shadows yawned in every window, in every chamber except for one central room. Here, Coryn the White worked her magic, and those enchantments cast a pearly illumination through the gloom.
This was the great manor that had long belonged to Lady Jenna, Mistress of the Order of the Red Robes. Now Jenna was Head of the Conclave, the most powerful and influential wizard on all Krynn. She had held that rank for several years, and it was a station that required her almost constant presence in the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth Forest. As a result, she had granted her white-robed counterpart the use not just of her domicile but of the exceedingly well-furnished wizard’s laboratory located there.
Coryn sat at a table on which she had arranged a series of small objects. Each was about the size of a sewing thimble and had been skillfully molded in solid gold. There was a miniature rose, a crown and sword, and a small model of a man-at-arms wielding a great sword. A tiny figurine of a hand mirror—in gold, not glass—sat to one side, and at the far end was a little set of balancing scales. In the very center of the table sat a shallow bowl filled with sparkling white wine. The bony white ceramic of the bowl was the source of the glow, an unnatural but pleasing light.
The wizard stared into the clear bubbling liquid and took up the tiny rose in her slender, delicate fingers. She concentrated, and moments later the image of the Duke of Caergoth appeared on the shimmering surface of the wine. He could be observed barking instructions to his wife, who bustled about in a petticoat while he wrestled with a formal black cape emblazoned with the symbol of the Rose. His wife, Duchess Martha, held up a red dress. He made a face, and she put it down to display a yellow gown. When this one was also rejected by the lord, the young duchess seemed to be on the verge of tears. Coryn didn’t need to hear what they were saying, so she put down the rose and allowed the image in the bowl to fade.
Next she took up the tiny mirror, holding it between her fingers as she again studied the liquid in the creamy white bowl. She saw the Lord Regent du Chagne in his private chamber. The lord stalked back and forth, beside a table blanketed with papers, notes, and an open ledger. The image in the bowl was not magnified enough for Coryn to read any of those pages, but s
he had no interest in his epistles in any event. She knew that the lord regent was the richest man in Ansalon, and she felt a certain sense of sadness as she regarded his scowling visage.
He would not hold his lordly station if she had not helped him to drive the Dark Knights from Palanthas, for which, despite her melancholy, she bore no regrets. There was so much more to be done in the way of progress, and she didn’t know if du Chagne was ever going to move beyond his increasingly petty concerns. When Coryn envisioned a return to Solamnic Rule, she thought of the great history of the Knighthood, of chivalry and a code of honor that protected the weak, advanced the cause of good against evil. She imagined pageantry and glamour, a state of civility in public affairs that worked toward the benefit of all. The Lord Regent, she had come to realize, thought merely in terms of profit and loss—his own, and that of his closest associates. She watched as he checked the door to his chambers, ensuring that it was locked, then moved to his secret mirror in the alcove. No doubt he needed to harp about profit margins to one of his lords.
Coryn also set that talisman aside. Holding the small crown, she now produced the image of the burly Duke of Thelgaard—Jarrod Yorgan. The big man sat beside a bed in which a sickly looking woman resided. The big man touched the woman’s forehead with a cloth, then stiffened. A glow began to emanate from the mirror on the wall beside the bed, and it was then the wizard realized who du Chagne intended to harangue.
Next she moved to pick up the tiny sword. She watched for a moment with a wry smile as Duke Rathskell of Solanthus, a slender and fit man of more than fifty years, was slowly undressed by his much younger wife. When the sultry woman knelt to unbuckle her lord’s boots, Cory quickly set down the tiny sword talisman.
For a long time she looked at the miniature of the swordsman. She felt a twinge of guilt when she used that spy, a reluctance that never bothered her with the others. The focus of this particular talisman was special, in so many ways … she remembered his strong arms, the fire she felt in her belly when he held her…. and the anger, the unquenched—possibly unquenchable—thirst for revenge that still burned inside of him. He craved … what? Justice, certainly, but justice on his own terms. Coryn, of course, wanted justice for all of Solamnia.
