Measure and the Truth

by Doug Niles

  As the days passed slowly, she found herself snapping at the guards when they came by. She complained about the quality of her food, even though it was always prepared and served perfectly. She demanded things—fabrics and thread, links of jewelry chain and baubles, paints and canvas—that she had no intention of using. What was initially sadness became anger, and then the anger became barely repressed fury.

  Until, at last, she knew that she could stay in that place no longer. Having just sent away her supper, barely touched, she had a reasonable hope she would be allowed privacy for the rest of the evening. If not … well, she was finally prepared to take the chance. The time was ripe for her to visit the person she wanted to see.

  She donned a cloak with a soft hood that would conceal her face and her golden hair, and she removed her jewelry—except for the magical circlet given to her by the white wizard. With her destination clearly in mind, she followed Coryn’s instructions, turning the ring on her finger and imagining the place, calling up every detail she could remember.

  The world faded away and she felt a momentary lightness in her stomach, the same sensation she’d experienced when she was riding and her horse took a high jump over a fence or stream. Selinda reached out to both sides, seeking something, anything, to grab for balance, but there was nothing there. She fought the urge to scream, but didn’t want to alarm her guards. The nothingness that surrounded her was everywhere, and her panic surged.

  And just like that, the feeling passed. She found herself standing in the vestibule of the great temple of Kiri-Jolith, one of the loftiest sanctuaries in Palanthas, which was exactly the place she had imagined as her destination. The unsettled feeling lingered in her stomach, and she breathed hard, but other than that, everything seemed normal. Instinctively wary, she ducked behind the nearest row of the columns that lined both sides of the great house of worship and waited for a moment, listening for any sound of alarm, any indication her sudden arrival had been noticed.

  But all seemed quiet. Soon her stuttered breathing settled down, and as she touched the cool marble of a nearby column, she was reassured by its solidity. Looking around, she took stock of her surroundings. Though she was the lone visitor in the vestibule, a hundred or more voices were raised in a steady chant.

  They were the prayers of vesperspeak, she knew, the ritual celebration of the clerics, apprentices, and acolytes that marked the end of church business for the day. She leaned back against the marble column and was reassured by the sounds that had been a part of her life since earliest childhood. The chants were in an ancient tongue, and she did not understand the words, but there was comfort merely in the solemn repetition. For long minutes she stood in the shadows, listening to the quasimusical prayers, which finally swelled to a crescendo that signaled the conclusion of worship.

  Finally the ritual ended with a whispered benediction and a few moments of symbolic silence. Eventually Selinda could hear the low buzz of conversation as the clerics rose and offered each other good wishes before dispersing—some to their houses or apartments nearby, while others would make their way to residences in either wing of the great temple. She heard the soft rustling of robes and sandals as people filed out, past the shadowy alcove where she lurked. When most of the clerics had exited, she finally emerged and advanced into the great, vaulted sanctuary.

  Some apprentices were tending to the many candles around the great room, extinguishing their flames, trimming wax, replacing tapers that had burned down too far. The apprentices took no notice of her as she quietly walked past them, keeping her hood over her hair and her eyes cast down. The great vault of the temple loomed high over her head, but the ceiling was as shadowy as the alcoves behind the columns, where the lighting was muted in deference to the just and mighty god, Kiri-Jolith.

  Kiri-Jolith was the eldest son of Paladine and Mishakal, and in the absence of his sire, he had gained prominence in the worship of the Solamnic peoples. He was a righteous god of glory, honor, and discipline, known to favor the efforts of those warriors who fought bravely in a just cause. Soldiers who elected to fight to the death instead of retreating were exalted in the god’s eyes. Courage was valued among his orders of priests and priestesses, many of whose number had been martyred over the years because of their unwillingness to compromise their beliefs.

  The temple was the setting, Selinda recalled with bitter irony, of her marriage to Jaymes. Her wedding day—indeed, all the time surrounding that event—remained a kind of fuzzy memory, as if it were something she had dreamed, rather than experienced. The place seemed so much more real as she walked its halls, stone and solid and permanent. In her heart, the young woman understood that the place hadn’t changed since her marriage, but she had.

  She made her way to the left side of the great room and passed into the corridor leading to the Hall of Priestesses. Passing several young women who were moving quietly, almost gliding, from room to room, Selinda nodded pleasantly in response to their recognition. The wing she was in was the living quarters of a dozen of the senior female clerics as well as some fifty apprentices and novices, and the princess had visited there before. She turned into a small hall and went to the door at the end of the corridor. There she stopped, drew a breath, and knocked softly.

  “Come in,” came the reply, the last word rising in inflection welcomingly.

  She opened the door and saw Melissa du Juliette. The young high priestess was hanging her golden robe on an elaborate rack. She turned and smiled warmly.

  “Selinda! It’s so nice to see you!”

  Almost immediately after her greeting, however, Melissa’s brow furrowed in concern. Selinda hadn’t said anything, didn’t think that her practiced expression revealed her inner torment, but her friend and counselor had clearly perceived her anguish.

  “Please! Come in; sit down. Take off that cloak—it’s so stuffy in here.” The priestess bustled around, pouring cups of tea.

  The two women sat together on a low couch, holding their steaming cups, communing in silence. Selinda looked at Melissa, marveling at the young woman’s composure and maturity. Though barely thirty, the priestess had demonstrated such a keen intellect, and was so clearly blessed by the stern god of right and justice that she had quickly risen to a high position in the church. She was one of two high priestesses in the temple at Palanthas—two high priests served there as well—and Melissa du Juliette was younger by twenty years than any of her three colleagues.

  Selinda had known her most of her life. Always, she had been a person the princess could talk to or simply enjoy her presence. As a teenage novice, Melissa had been one of the older girls who shared advice, gossip, and good humor with the young daughter of the city’s lord regent.

  As they sat there, however, the wife of the emperor found herself at a loss for words. She was grateful that the priestess made no effort to draw her out, but seemed content to simply share the hot, spicy tea and sit quietly. Eventually, of course, the silence began to wear thin, and Selinda knew that she had to explain herself.

  “I … I’m pregnant,” she began.

  “Selinda!” Melissa’s face brightened, and she took both of the princess’s hands in her own. Then she frowned and looked at her friend more carefully. “Is it troublesome already? Are you in pain? Do you fear you’ll lose the child?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not in pain, but I am afraid. Afraid that something will happen … or, sometimes, I confess, simply afraid I will have the child!” Selinda blurted.

  The tears came then, and she let them flow unabated. The priestess gathered the other woman into her arms and held her, let the sobs, the anguish, run their course. Finally, the pregnant woman was able to push herself upright, draw a few steady breaths, and dry her eyes.

  “I—I’m sorry,” she said. “That hasn’t happened before. I’ve been alone most of the time, and …”

  “You don’t need to explain—about the tears,” Melissa replied. “But why do you grieve so? I understand your husband has ta
ken his army through the pass, to Vingaard. Is that what worries you?”

  Selinda shook her head. Somehow, she was strengthened by the thought of Jaymes Markham, and her apprehension became determination. “I felt this way even before he left. Indeed, I came to you because … because I am not sure that it is right to have this child. Perhaps I will be a poor mother—or what if it’s a boy, and he grows into a man like his father? What if I simply lost the baby? Perhaps that would be best!”

  The priestess looked sad, moisture appearing in her own eyes. “Oh, child,” she said to the woman only a few years younger than herself. “Why? What makes you talk so wickedly?”

  The princess raised her chin. “Is it wicked? What if the consequences of having the child are worse than the alternative?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “It’s my husband. He’s a very dangerous man. He’ll do anything to hold, to secure, his grip on power. The thing that would aid him the most in this goal is the birth of a son, an heir. Melissa, I don’t love him anymore; I don’t think I ever did.”

  “But your marriage! I was there, performed the rites. You were head over heels!”

  “I was bewitched, Melissa! I must have been! That’s the only explanation. You recall, I met Jaymes on the plains while he was still an outlaw; he had a strong presence even then. I caused him to be captured by General Markus’s men, and even in chains he seemed dangerous. When he first wooed me, I was cautious …

  “But we shared some wine … and everything became very confused. My feelings for him changed in those moments, but it wasn’t anything he said. It must have been some potion in the wine!”

  “This is a serious charge. If true, he has done you a great wrong. But surely you can see that the child is guiltless?”

  “There is no child! Not yet. But I came to ask you if there is a way to stop that child from being born.”

  “Selinda!” The priestess spoke with an air of resignation and finality. “What you ask runs counter to everything I hold sacred. I cannot help you in this matter. It is wrong.” Melissa sighed sorrowfully. “Still, I am glad you came to see me. I wish you had come sooner.”

  “I couldn’t risk it. I have been locked in my chambers ever since he left. I only came now with the aid of this magic ring, from Coryn.”

  “He locked you up?” Melissa’s eyes widened in shock. “He has no right to do that! You’re right about his power—he goes too far!”

  “That’s what I’m telling you about him. He doesn’t need a right—he makes his own rights and expects the rest of the world to fall into line. Please—can’t you help me?”

  “I will try to help you but not in the manner you request. I understand that your husband, the man who calls himself ‘emperor,’ has much to answer for. What I suggest is we go, together, to talk to him, to confront him with these truths.”

  “What good will that do?” protested the princess.

  “We have to try. Will you come with me?”

  Selinda nodded. “But Vingaard is across the mountains, a week’s ride.”

  Melissa nodded at the golden ring on the other woman’s finger. “You have the means to make the journey, right there on your hand. And teleportation magic is not unknown to those in our order. We could travel together, through the ether. I need some hours to prepare the spell, so let us plan to leave in the morning.”

  Selinda thought about the journey. She felt nothing but anguish; there didn’t seem much hope of gaining anything from confronting her husband. But she had to try something.

  “All right,” she said. “Let’s go see him together.”

  Blayne Kerrigan lashed his horse and led his triumphant column across the Stonebridge. The men whooped and cheered as they approached Vingaard Keep, stirring equally enthusiastic cries from the many citizens lining the walls of the lofty castle. The three tall spires all flew the banner of the Blue Sturgeon, the keep’s ancient sigil, and trumpets brayed a fanfare as the young lord and his warriors galloped into the central courtyard and dismounted in the midst of the frenzied populace.

  The walls loomed high all around, white and pure and ancient. The three great spires lofted overhead, serene, aloof, grandiose. In the flush of Blayne’s victory, those towers seemed as permanent as the rugged mountains on the western horizon.

  “The emperor’s great weapons have been destroyed!” boasted the young captain. “Make ready to hold the Stonebridge!”

  Confetti rained from the high ramparts, and ladies—dressed in gowns and jewelry, as if for a ball—waltzed with each other and embraced each of the sooty, sweaty riders as they dismounted from their blown, lathered steeds.

  Amid the commotion, Blayne found his sister, Marrinys. She was less exuberant than some of the women, and he understood why. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he looked into her worried eyes. “You heard about Father?”

  “Is it true he was killed by the emperor’s men, taken at the parley?”

  “Yes.” The young nobleman didn’t try to hide his bitterness. “And he will be avenged. For now, you should know the castle is safe—the emperor’s great weapons have been destroyed!”

  “I’m proud of you, Blayne,” she said, hugging him. He held her tightly, felt the tremors of her grief. Forcibly he broke away, reminding himself that the first blows of vengeance had already been struck.

  “We won’t let Father be forgotten. But know this, my sister: the emperor’s bombards will not destroy our home! And we did it, we attacked brilliantly, without losing a man!”

  “I’m happy about that, Blayne. Really, I am. But I fear for the future. Even if he can’t destroy this place from across the river, how long can we hold out here against his army?”

  “I don’t know, Marrinys. Not for sure. But I think we can hold out for most of the summer, if need be. We can cover the Stonebridge from these walls, and our catapults and archers will pound any force he dares to send across. And the longer we hold our defense, word of our courage and success will spread across Solamnia. In a matter of weeks, I expect rebellions to arise in other parts of the nation. We have an ally in Thelgaard, where Captain Franz—the son of the ruling lord—despises the emperor, and works on his father’s loyalty. There will be unrest in Caergoth and perhaps even Solanthus. When fires of rebellion burn on all sides of him, the emperor will be forced to withdraw and alter his plans.”

  “I hope you’re right, my brother. But even so, I’m afraid.”

  Blayne had no time for her concern; he was too busy sharing the sparkling wine of victory, pouring bottles from both hands. “Let’s at least relish a moment of victory today! We can have hope for the future, finally.”

  She let him go, but her eyes remained troubled. She watched as his riders were toasted, and hoisted onto the shoulders of the castle’s men-at-arms, and in more than one instance hustled off into the stables by pretty girls for more personal rewards. The scene brought a reluctant smile to her face.

  Meanwhile the young lord found himself borne into the keep’s great hall on a swelling tide of victorious Vingaard. Only when he was seated at the great table, still sharing drinks, waiting for the triumphal banquet to be prepared, was he reminded of a grim reality. He felt a gentle touch on his shoulder and looked up to see the red-robed figure of his—and his father’s—closest advisor.

  “You’d better come with me, my lord,” said Red Wallace, his tone and demeanor sobering the other man’s excitement.

  “What is it?” asked Blayne, rising and following the wizard out of the hall when Wallace made no move to reply. In silence they climbed the winding stairs within the keep’s tallest tower. The young lord’s stomach grew queasy. Even the spectacular leaded glass windows, whose beautiful panes were known throughout Solamnia, could not ease the growing heaviness in his heart.

  When they were about halfway up the lofty tower, Wallace led Blayne out onto a small balcony, a walled perch on the side of the spire that offered an unimpeded view to the south. Already the emperor’s army wa
s marching into view, great columns breaking off the road, forming camps along the ridge to the south of Apple Creek.

  “That’s no surprise,” he informed Wallace confidently. “We knew they would come this far, and we’ll hold them at Stonebridge, if need be.”

  “That’s not what I wanted you to see,” the red wizard declared grimly. He pointed to the west, where the road wound out of sight along the shallow valley of the creek.

  Blayne saw it immediately: the long, trunklike shape rising from the bed of the wagon, trundled along by its team of eight massive oxen. He couldn’t believe his eyes.

  “One of the bombards survived?” he asked finally, his voice hollow.

  “It would appear so,” Wallace replied.

  “But … but we destroyed them all! All three! They were burning as we retreated!” Even as he blurted out those words, Blayne realized how foolish they were. He could see with his own eyes that one of the great weapons had survived. Wallace said nothing.

  “What do we do now?” the younger man asked, after a long time.

  “It seems we have little choice. He can attack and probably destroy the keep from the safety of the far side of the bridge. I think you must submit, throw yourself on his mercy. Send a courier!”

  Word of the bombard’s appearance had spread to the great hall by the time Blayne and the wizard returned. The mood was somber and quiet, the crowd having thinned from hundreds to a few dozen loyal supporters. They listened with grim faces while the son of Lord Kerrigan dictated a note, specifying the castle’s surrender, and pleading for the emperor’s mercy. Within a few moments, a courier raced out of the gates, across the Stonebridge, and up to the army’s initial picket line.

  Blayne made his way to the gatehouse, intending to wait there for the courier’s return. He was startled to see the man come galloping back, even before the young nobleman had made his way to the top of the wall. Hurrying back down the stone stairs, he accosted the rider as soon as the man dismounted.

  “Did you speak to the emperor? What did he say?”