2

The Knights trials.

And—finally,’ said Derek in a low and measured voice, ‘I accuse Sturm Brightblade of cowardice in the face of the enemy.’

A low murmur ran through the assemblage of knights gathered in the castle of Lord Gunthar. Three knights: seated at the massive black oak table in front of the assembly. leaned their heads together to confer in low tones.

Long ago, the three seated’’ at this Knights Trials—as prescribed by the Measure—would have beer the Grand Master, the High Clerist, and the High Justice. But at this time there was no Grand Master. There had not been a High Clerist since the time of the Cataclysm. And while the High Justice—Lord Alfred MarKenin—was present, his hold on that position was tenuous at best. Whoever became the new Grand Master had leave to replace him.

Despite these vacancies in the Head of the Order, the business of the Knights must continue. Though not strong enough to claim the coveted position of Grand Master, Lord Gunthar Uth Wistan was strong enough to act in that role. And so he sat here today, at the beginning of the Yuletide season, in judgment on this young squire, Sturm Brightblade. To his right sat Lord Alfred, to his left, young Lord Michael Jeoffrey, filling in as High Clerist.

Facing them, in the Great Hall of Castle Uth Wistan, were twenty other Knights of Solamnia who had been hastily gathered from all parts of Sancrist to sit as witnesses to this Knights Trials—as prescribed by the Measure. These now muttered and shook their heads as their leaders conferred.

From a table directly in front of the three Knights Seated in Judgment, Lord Derek rose and bowed to Lord Gunthar. His testimony had reached its end. There remained now only the Knight’s Answer and the Judgment itself. Derek returned to his place among the other knights, laughing and talking with them.

Only one person in the hall was silent. Sturm Brightblade sat unmoving throughout all of Lord Derek Crownguard’s damning accusations. He had heard charges of insubordination, failure to obey orders, masquerading as a knight—and not a word or murmur had escaped him. His face was carefully expressionless, his hands were clasped on the top of the table.

Lord Gunthar’s eyes were on Sturm now, as they had been throughout the Trials. He began to wonder if the man was even still alive, so fixed and white was his face, so rigid his posture. Gunthar had seen Sturm flinch only once. At the charge of cowardice, a shudder convulsed the man’s body. The look on his face . . . well, Gunthar recalled seeing that same look once previously—on a man who had just been run through by a spear. But Sturm quickly regained his composure.

Gunthar was so interested in watching Brightblade that he nearly lost track of the conversation of the two knights next to him. He caught only the end of Lord Alfred’s sentence.

‘. . . not allow Knight’s Answer.’

.’Why not?’ Lord Gunthar asked sharply, though keeping his voice low. ‘It is his right according to the Measure.’

‘We have never had a case like this,’ Lord Alfred, Knight of the Sword, stated flatly. ‘Always before, when a squire has been brought up before the Council of the Order to attain his knighthood, there have been witnesses, many witnesses. He is given an opportunity to explain his reasons for his actions. No one ever questions that he committed the acts. But Brightblade’s only defense—’

‘Is to tell us that Derek lies;` finished Lord Michael Jeoffrey Knight of the Crown. ‘And that is unthinkable. To take the word of a squire over a Knight of the Rose!’

‘Nonetheless, the young man will have his say,’ Lord Gunthar said, glancing sternly at each of the men. ‘That is the Law according to the Measure. Do either of you question it?’

‘No, of course not. But—’

‘Very well.’ Gunthar smoothed his moustaches and, leaning forward, tapped gently on the wooden table with the hilt of the sword—Sturm’s sword—that lay upon it. The other two knights exchanged looks behind his back, one raising his eyebrows; the other shrugging slightly. Gunthar was aware of this, as he was aware of all the covert scheming and plotting now pervasive in the Knighthood. He chose to ignore it.

Not yet strong enough to claim the vacant position of Grand Master, but still the strongest and most powerful of the knights currently seated an the Council, Gunthar had been forced to ignore a great deal of what he would have—in another day and age—quashed without hesitation. He expected this disloyalty of Alfred MarKenin—the knight had long been in Derek’s camp—but he was surprised at Michael, whom he had thought loyal to him. Apparently Derek had gotten to him, too.

Gunthar watched Derek Crownguard as the knights returned to their places. Derek was the only rival with the money and backing capable of claiming the rank of Grand Master. Hoping to earn additional votes, Derek had eagerly volunteered to undertake the perilous quest in search of the legendary dragon orbs. Gunthar was given little choice but to agree. If he had refused, he would appear frightened of Derek’s growing power. Derek was undeniably the most qualified—if one strictly followed the Measure. But Gunthar, who had known Derek a long time, would have prevented his going if he could have—not because he feared the knight but because he truly did not trust him. The man was vainglorious and powerhungry, and—when it came down to it—Derek’s first loyalties lay to Derek.

And now it appeared that Derek’s successful return with a dragon orb had won the day. It had brought many knights into his camp who had been heading that direction anyway and actually enticed away some in Gunther’s s own faction. The only ones who opposed him still were the younger knights in the lowest order of the Knighthood—Knights of the Crown.

These young men had little use for the strict and rigid interpretation of the Measure that was life’s blood to the older knights. They pushed for change—and had been severely chastened by Lord Derek Crownguard. Some came close to losing their knighthood. These young knights were firmly behind Lord Gunthar. Unfortunately, they were few in number and, for the most part, had more loyalty than money. The young knights had, however, adopted Sturm’s cause as their own.

But this was Derek Crownguard’s master stroke, Gunthar thought bitterly. With one slice of his sword, Derek was going to get rid of a man he hated and his chief rival as well.

Lord Gunthar was a well-known friend of the Brightblade family, a friendship that traced back generations. It was Gunthar who had advanced Sturm’s claim when the young man appeared out of nowhere five years before to seep his father and his inheritance. Sturm bad been able, with letters from his mother, to prove his right to the Brightblade name. A few insinuated this had been accomplished on the wrong side of the sheets, but Gunthar quickly squelched those rumors. The young man was obviously the son of his old friend—that much could be seen in Sturm’s face. By backing Sturm, however; the lord was risking a great deal.

Gunthar’s gaze went to Derek, walking among the knights, smiling and shaking hands. Yes, this trial was making him— Lord Gunthar Ugh Wistan—appear a fool.

Worse still, Gunthar thought sadly, his eyes returning to Sturm, it was probably going to destroy the career of what he believed to be a very fine man, a man worthy of walking his father’s path.

‘Sturm Brightblade,’ Lord Gunthar said when silence descended on the hall, ‘you have heard the accusations made against you?’

‘I have, my lord,’ Sturm answered. His deep voice echoed eerily in the hall. Suddenly a log in the huge fireplace behind Gunthar split, sending a flare of heat and a shower of sparks up the chimney. Gunthar paused while the servants hustled in efficiently to add more wood. When the servants were gone, he continued the ritual questioning.

‘Do you, Sturm Brightblade, understand the charges made against you, and do you further understand that these are grievous charges and could cause this Council to find you unfit for the knighthood?’

‘I do,’ Sturm started to reply. His voice broke. Coughing, he repeated more firmly, ‘I do, my lord.’

Gunthar smoothed his moustaches, trying to think how to lead into thus, knowing that anything the young man said against Derek was going to reflect badly upon Sturm himself.

‘How old are you, Brightblade?’ Gunthar asked.

Sturm blinked at this unexpected question.

‘Over thirty I believe?’ Gunthar continued, musing.

‘Yes, my Lord,’ Sturm answered.

`And. from what Derek tells us about your exploits in Ice Wall Castle, a skilled warrior—’

‘I never denied that, my lord,’ Derek said, rising to his feet once again. His voice was tinged with impatience.

‘Yet you accuse him of cowardice,’ Gunthar snapped. ‘If my memory serves me correctly, you stated that when the elves attacked, he refused to obey your order to fight.’

Derek’s face was flushed. ‘May I remind your lordship that I am not on trial—’

‘You charge Brightblade with cowardice in the face of the enemy,’ Gunthar interrupted. ‘It has been many years since the elves were our enemies.’

Derek hesitated. The other knights appeared uncomfortable. The elves were members of the Council of Whitestone, but they were not allowed a vote. Because of the discovery of the dragon orb, the elves would be attending the upcoming Council, and it would never do to have word get back to them that the knights considered them enemies.

‘Perhaps ‘enemy is too strong a word, my lord.’ Derek recovered smoothly. ‘If I am at fault, it is simply that I am being forced to go by what is written in the Measure. At the time I speak of, the elves—though not our enemies in point of fact—were doing everything in their power to prevent us from bringing the dragon orb to Sancrist. Since this was my mission—and the elves opposed it—I therefore am forced to define them as ‘enemies’—according to the Measure.’

Slick bastard, Gunthar thought grudgingly.

With a bow to apologize for speaking out of turn, Derek sat down again. Many of the older knights nodded in approval.

‘It also says in the Measure,’ Sturm said slowly, ‘that we are not to take life needlessly, that we fight only in defense—either our own or the defense of others. The elves did not threaten our lives. At no time were we in actual physical danger.’

‘They were shooting arrows at you, man!’ Lord Alfred struck the table with his gloved hand.

‘True, my lord,’ Sturm replied, ‘but all know the elves are expert marksmen. If they had wanted to kill us, they would not have been hitting trees!’

‘What do you believe would have happened if you had attacked the elves?’ Gunthar questioned.

‘The results would have been tragic in my view, my lord,’ Sturm said, his voice soft and low. ‘For the first time in generations, elves and humans would be killing each other. I think the Dragon Highlords would have laughed.’

Several of the young knights applauded.

Lord Alfred glared at them, angry at this serious breach of the Measure’s rules of conduct. ‘Lord Gunthar, may I remind: you that Lord Derek Crownguard is not on trial here. He has proven his valor time and again upon the field of battle. I think we may safely take his word for what is an enemy action and what isn’t. Sturm Brightblade, do you say that the charges made against you by Lord Derek Crownguard are false?’

‘My lord,’ Sturm began, licking his lips which were cracked; and dry, ‘I do not say the knight has lied. I say however that he has misrepresented me.’

‘To what purpose?’ Lord Michael asked.

Sturm hesitated. ‘I would prefer not to answer that, my lord,’ he said so quietly that many knights in the back row could not hear and called for Gunthar to repeat the question. He did so and received the same reply—this time louder.

‘‘On what grounds do you refuse to answer that question, Brightblade?’ Lord Gunthar asked sternly.

‘Because—according to the Measure—it impinges on the honor of the Knighthood,’ Sturm replied.

Lord Gunthar’s face was grave. ‘That is a serious charge. Making it, you realize you have no one to stand with you in evidence?’

‘I do, my lord,’ Sturm answered, ‘and that is why I prefer not to respond.’

‘If I command you to speak?’

‘That, of course, would be different.’

‘Then speak, Sturm Brightblade. This is an unusual situation, and I do not see how we can make a fair judgment without hearing everything. Why do you believe Lord Derek Crownguard misrepresents you?’

Sturm’s face flushed. Clasping and unclasping his hands, he raised his eyes and looked directly at the three knights who sat in judgment on him. His case was lost, he knew that. He would never be a knight, never attain what had been dearer to him than life itself. To have lost it through fault of his own would have been bitter enough, but to lose it like this was a festering wound. And so he spoke the words that he knew would make Derek his bitter enemy for the rest of his days.

‘I believe Lord Derek Crownguard misrepresents me in an effort to further his own ambition, my lord.’

Tumult broke out. Derek was on his feet. His friends restrained him forcibly, or he would have attacked Sturm in the Council Hall. Gunthar banged the sword hilt for order and eventually the assembly quieted down, but not before Derek had challenged Sturm to test his honor in the field.

Gunthar stared at the knight coldly.

‘You know, Lord Derek, that in this—a declared time of war—the contests of honor are forbidden: Come to order or I’ll have you expelled from this assembly.’

Breathing heavily, his face splotched with red, Derek relapsed back into his seat.

Gunthar gave the Assembly a few more moments to settle down, then resumed. ‘Have you anything more to say in your defense, Sturm Brightblade?’

‘No, my lord,’ Sturm said.

‘Then you may withdraw while this matter is considered.’

Sturm rose and bowed to the lords. Turning, he bowed to the Assembly. Then he left the room, escorted by two knights who led him to an antechamber. Here, the two knights, not unkindly, left Sturm to himself. They stood near the closed door, talking softly of matters unrelated to the trial.

Sturm sat on a bench at the far end of the chamber. He appeared composed and calm, but it was all an act. He was determined not to let these knights see the tumult in his soul. It was hopeless, he knew Gunthar’s grieved expression told him that much. But what would the judgment be? Exile, being stripped of lands and wealth? Sturm smiled bitterly. He had nothing they could take from him. He had lived outside of Solarnnia so long, exile would be meaningless. Death? He would almost welcome that. Anything was better than this hopeless existence, this dull throbbing pain.

Hours passed. The murmur of three voices rose .and fell from within the corridors around the hall, sometimes angrily. Most of the other knights had gone out, since only the three as Heads of the Council could pass judgment. The other knights were split into differing factions.

The young knights spoke openly of Sturm’s noble bearing, his acts of courage, which even Derek could not suppress. Sturm was right in not fighting the elves. The knights of Solamnia needed all the friends they could get these days. Why attack needlessly, and so forth. The older Knights had only one answer—the Measure. Derek had given Sturm an order. He had refused to obey. The Measure said this was inexcusable.

Arguments raged most of the afternoon.

Then, near evening, a small silver bell rang.

‘Brightblade,’ said one of the knights.

Sturm raised his head. ‘Is it time?’ The knight nodded.

Sturm bowed his head for a moment asking Paladine for courage. Then he rose to his feet. He and his guards waited for the other knights to reenter and be seated. He knew that they were learning the verdict as soon as they entered.

Finally, the two knights detailed as escort opened the door and motioned for Sturm to enter. He walked into the Hall, the knights following behind. Sturm’s gaze went at once to the table before Lord Gunthar.

The sword of his father—a sword that legend said was passed down from Berthel Brightblade himself; a sword that would break only if its master broke—lay on the table. Sturm’s eyes went to the sword. His head dropped to hide the burning tears in his eyes.

Wreathed around the blade was the ancient symbol of guilt—black roses.

‘Bring the man, Sturm Brightblade, forward,’ called Lord Gunthar.

The man, Sturm Brightblade, not the knight! thought Sturm in despair. Then he remembered Derek. His head came up swiftly, proudly, as he blinked away his tears. Just as he would have hidden his pain from his enemy on the field of battle, so he was determined to hide it now from Derek. Throwing back his head defiantly; his eyes on Lord Gunthar and on no one else, the disgraced squire walked forward to stand before the three officers of the Order to await his fate.

‘Sturm Brightblade, we have found you guilty. We are prepared to render judgment. Are you prepared to receive it?’

‘Yes, my lord.’ Sturm said tightly.

Gunthar tugged his moustaches a sign that the men who had served with him recognized. Lord Gunthar always tugged his moustaches just before riding into battle.

‘Sturm Brightblade, it is our judgment that you henceforth cease wearing any of the trappings or accoutrements of a Knight of Solamnia -’

‘Yes, my lord,’ Sturm said softly, swallowing.

‘And, henceforth, you will not draw pay from the coffers of the Knights, nor obtain any property or gift from them . . .’

The knights in the hall shifted restlessly. This was ridiculous! No one had drawn pay in the service of the Order since the Cataclysm. Something was up. They smelled thunder before the storm.

‘Finally—’ Lord Gunthar paused. He leaned forward, his hands toying with the black roses that graced the antique sword. His shrewd eyes swept the Assembly, gathering up his audience, allowing the tension to build. By the time he spoke, even the fire behind him had ceased to crackle.

‘Sturm Brightblade. Assembled Knights. Never before has a case such as this come before the Council. And that, perhaps, is not as add as it may seem, for these are dark and unusual days. We have a young squire—and I remind you that Sturm Brightblade is young by all standards of the Order—a young squire noted for his skill and valor in battle. Even his accuser admits that. A young squire charged with disobeying orders and cowardice in the face of the enemy. The young squire does not deny this charge, but states that he has been misrepresented.

‘Now, by the Measure, we are bound to accept the word of a tried and tested knight such as Derek Crownguard over the word of a man who has not yet won his shield. But the Measure also states that this man shall be able to call witnesses in his own behalf. Due to the unusual circumstances occasioned by these dark times, Sturm Brightblade is not able to call witnesses. Nor, for that matter, was Derek Crownguard able to produce witnesses to support his own cause. Therefore, we have agreed on the following, slightly irregular, procedure.’

Sturm stood before Gunthar, confused and troubled. What was happening? He glanced at the other two knights. Lord Alfred was not bothering to conceal his anger. It was obvious, therefore, that this ‘agreement’ of Gunther’s had been hard won.

‘It is the judgment of this Council,’ Lord Gunthar continued, ‘that the young man, Sturm Brightblade, be accepted into the lowest order of the knights.—’the Order of the Crown—on my Honor. . .’

There was a universal gasp of astonishment.

‘And that, furthermore, he be placed as third in command of the army that is due to set sail shortly for Palanthas. As prescribed by the Measure, the High Command must have a representative from each of the Orders. Therefore, Derek Crownguard will be High Commander, representing the Order of the Rose. Lord Alfred MarKenin will represent the Order of the Sword, and Sturm Brightblade will act—on my honor—as commander for the Order of the Crown.’

Amid the stunned silence, Sturm felt tears course down his cheeks, but now he need hide them no longer. Behind him, he heard the sound of someone rising, of a sword rattling in anger. Derek stalked furiously out of the Hall, the other knights of his faction following him. There were scattered cheers, too. Sturm saw through his tears that about half the knights in the room particularly the younger knights, the knights he would command—were applauding. Sturm felt swift pain well deep from inside his soul. Though he had won his victory, he was appalled by what the knighthood had become—divided into factions by power-hungry men. It was nothing more than a corrupt shell of a once—honored brotherhood.

‘Congratulations, Brightblade,’ Lord Alfred said stiffly. ‘I hope you realize what Lord Gunthar has done for you.’

‘I do, my Lord,’ Sturm said, bowing, ‘and I swear by my father’s sword’—he laid his hand upon it—’that I will be worthy of his trust.’

‘See to it, young man,’ Lord Alfred replied and left. The younger Lord, Michael, accompanied him without a word to Sturm.

But the other young knights came forward then, offering their enthusiastic congratulations. They pledged his health in wine and would have stayed for an all-out chinking bout if Gunthar had not sent them on their way.

When the two of them were alone in the Hall, Lord Gunthar smiled expansively at Sturm and shook his hand. The young knight returned the handshake warmly, if not the smile. The pain was too fresh.

Then, slowly arid carefully, Sturm took the black roses from his sword. Laying them on the table, he slid the blade back in the scabbard at his side. He started to brush the roses aside, but paused, then picked up one and thrust it into his belt.

‘I must thank you, my lord,’ Sturm began, his woke quivering.

‘You have nothing to thank one for, son,’ Lord Gunthar said. Glancing around the room, he shivered. ‘Let’s, get out—of this place and go somewhere warm. Mulled wine?’

The two knights walked damn the stone corridors of Gunthar’s ancient castle; the sounds of the young knights leaning drifting up from below—horses’s hooves clattering on the cobblestone, voices shouting, some even raising in a military song.

‘I must thank you, my lord,’ Sturm said firmly. ‘The risk you take is very great. I hope I will prove worthy—’

‘Risk! Nonsense, my boy.’ Rubbing his hands to restore the circulation, Gunthar led Sturm into a small room decorated for the approaching Yule celebration—red winter roses, grown indoors, kingfisher feathers, and tiny, delicate golden crowns. A fire blazed brightly. At Gunthar’s command, servants brought in two mugs of steaming liquid that gave off a warm, spicy odor. ‘‘Many were the times your father threw his shield in front of me and stood over me, protecting me when I was down.’

‘And you did the same for him,’ Sturm said. ‘You owe him nothing. Pledging your honor for me means that, if I fail, you will suffer. You will be stripped of your rank, your title, your lands. Derek would see to that,’ he added gloomily.

As Gunthar took a deep drink of his wine, he studied the young man before him. Sturm merely sipped at his wine out of politeness, holding the mug with a hand that trembled visibly. Gunthar laid his hand kindly on Sturm’s shoulder, pushing the young man down gently into a chair.

‘Have you failed in the past, Sturm?’ Gunthar asked.

Sturm looked up, his brown eyes flashing. ‘No, my lord; he answered. ‘‘I have not. I swear it!’

‘Then I have no fear for the future,’ Lord Gunthar said, smiling. He raised his mug. ‘‘I pledge your good fortune in battle; Sturm Brightblade.’

Sturm shut his eyes. The strain had been too much. Dropping his head an his arm, he wept—his body shaking with painful sobs. Gunthar gripped his shoulder.

‘I understand. . .’ he said, his eyes looking back to a time in Solamnia when this young man’s father had broken down and cried that same way— the night Lord Brightblade had sent his young wife and infant son on a journey into exile—a journey from which he would never see then return.

Exhausted, Sturm finally fell asleep, his head lying on the table. Gunthar sat with him, sipping the hot wine, lost in memories off the past, until he, too, drifted into slumber.

The few days left before the army sailed to Palanthas passed swiftly for Sturm. He had to find armor—used; he couldn’t afford new. He packed his father’s carefully, intending to carry it since he had been forbidden to wear it. Then there were meetings to attend, battle dispositions to study, information on the enemy to assimilate.

The battle for Palanthas would be a bitter one, determining control of the entire northern part of Solamnia. The leaders were agreed upon their strategy. They would fortify the city walls with the city’s army. The knights themselves would occupy the High Clerist’s Tower that stood blocking the pass through the Vingaard Mountains. But that was all they agreed upon. Meetings between the three leaders were tense, the air chill.

Finally the day came for the ships to sail. The knights gathered on board. Their families stood quietly on the shore. Though faces were pale, there were few tears, the women standing as tight—lipped and stern as their men. Some wives wore swords buckled around their own waists. All knew that, if the battle in the north was lost, the enemy would come across the sea.

Gunthar stood upon the pier, dressed in his bright armor, talking with the knights, bidding farewell to his sons. He and Derek exchanged a few ritual words as prescribed by the Measure. He and Lord .Alfred embraced perfunctorily. At last, Gunthar sought out Sturm. The young knight, clad in plain, shabby armor, stood apart from the crowd.

‘Brightblade,’ Gunthar said in a low voice as he came near him, ‘I have been meaning to ask this but never found a moment in these last few days. You mentioned that these friends of yours would be coming to Sancrist. Are there any who could serve as witnesses before the Council?’

Sturm paused. For a wild moment the only person he could think of was Tanis. His thoughts had been with his friend during these last trying days. He’d even had a surge of hope that Tanis might arrive in Sancrist. But the hope had died. Wherever Tanis was, he had his own problems, he faced his own dangers. There was another person, too, whom he had hoped against hope he might see. Without conscious thought, Sturm placed his hand over the Starjewel that hung around his neck against his breast. He could almost feel its warmth, and he knew—without knowing how—that though far away, Alhana was with him. Then—

‘Laurana!’ he said.

‘A woman?’ Gunthar frowned.

‘Yes, but daughter of the Speaker of the Suns, a member of the royal household of the Qualinesti. And there is her brother, Gilthanas. Both would testify for me.’

‘The royal household. . .’ Gunthar mused. His face brightened. ‘That would be perfect, especially since we have received word that the Speaker himself will attend the High Council to discuss the dragon orb. If that happens, my boy, somehow I’ll get word to you, and you can put that armor back on! You’ll be vindicated! Free to wear it without shame!’

‘And you will be free of your pledge,’ Sturm said, shaking hands with the knight gratefully.

‘Bah! Don’t give that a thought.’ Gunthar laid his hand on Sturm’s head, as he had laid his hand on the heads of his own sons. Sturm knelt before him reverently. ‘Receive my blessing, Sturm Brightblade, a father’s blessing I give in the absence of your own father. Do your duty, young man, and remain your father’s son. May Lord Huma’s spirit be with you.’

‘Thank you, my lord,’ Sturm said, rising to his feet. ‘Farewell,’

‘Farewell, Sturm,’ Gunthar said. Embracing the young knight swiftly, he turned and walked away.

The knights boarded the ships. It was dawn, but no sun shone in the winter sky. Gray clouds hung over a lead-gray sea. There were no cheers, the only sounds were the shouted commands of the captain and the responses of his crew, the creaking of the winches, and the flapping of the sails in the wind.

Slowly the white-winged ships weighed anchor and sails north. Soon the last sail was out of sight, but still no one left the pier, not even when a sudden rain squall struck, pelting them with sleet and icy drops, drawing a fine gray curtain across the chill waters.