The Reign Of Istar (2 page)

Colors of Belief Richard A. Knaak Arryl Tremaine stepped into the common room of Timon's Folly, the inn where he was
staying, and immediately noted the eyes that fixed on him. He was clad in simple traveling
clothes. Those in the inn could not know for certain that he was a Knight of Solamnia, but
they COULD mark him as a foreigner. That in itself brought attention enough. Had he not
prudently decided to leave his armor back in his room, the rest of the patrons would not
have pretended that they were looking anywhere but at him.

Ignoring the others, he marched toward the innkeeper, a heavy, bustling man named Brek.
The innkeeper was the only one to give him any sort of greeting, likely because he felt a
kinship with the young knight. Brek's grandfather had been the Timon whose folly had
earned the inn its name - and likewise drove the family to leave Solamnia. Timon had been
a Knight of the Sword, like Tremaine.

Tremaine was of the opinion that Timon's line had grown much too soft in only two
generations.

“Good evening, Sir Tremaine,” the man said in a voice that carried well. Now all the
patrons looked up.

“Master Brek.” Arryl Tremaine's own voice was low and just a hint sharp at the moment. “I
have asked you to not use my title.”

Solamnic Knights were a rare sight in the land of Istar, much less the holy city of the
same name. Arryl, coming from the more secluded southwest of his own country, had never
truly understood why. Both the knighthood and the Kingpriest - he who was ruler of Istar -
served the same lord, the god of light and goodness, Paladine. Once compatible, the two
servants no longer seemed to be able to work side by side. There were rumors that the church had grown jealous of the knights'
power, and the knights jealous of the church's wealth. A Tremaine never bent low enough to
believe such rabble-rousing. The House of Tremaine might have seen better days, but the
pride of the family was still very much in flower. The young knight had come to Istar
three days earlier to learn the truth.

“My apologies, Master Tremaine. Have you decided to take your meal here? We've not seen
you since you arrived. My wife and daughters fear you find something amiss with their
cooking.”

Arryl had no desire to talk about either food or the innkeeper's family, especially where
Master Brek's daughters were concerned. Like many a woman, they were taken with the young
knight's handsome, albeit cool, visage and his tall, well-honed form. Arryl in no way
encouraged them and, in point of fact, found the thought of mixing base desires with his
holy trek to Istar sacrilegious.

“I have come merely to ask some information of you before I retire for the day.”

“So early? It is barely dark, Master.” Brek thought the knight a little odd. It was clear
that the innkeeper either had forgotten or had never been told by his grandfather about
the daily rituals of a Solamnic Knight.

Arryl frowned. He wanted answers, not more questions about his personal habits. “I saw a
man arrested by the city guard, a man who had simply been standing by his cart and selling
fruit. I have made purchases myself from him in the past day. The soldiers gave no reason
for his arrest, something unheard of in my country. He was chained and dragged - ”

“I'm certain there was a PROPER reason for it, Master Tremaine,” Brek interrupted quickly.
His smile suddenly seemed strained. “Will you be staying for the Games, Master? Rumor has
it that there will be something special going on this time. Some say the Kingpriest
himself will attend!”

“I do not believe in these so-called Games. And I've seen enough of the Kingpriest, thank
you.” Everywhere Tremaine wandered through the vast city, with its tall white towers and
extravagantly gilded temples, he saw the benevolent image of the holy monarch smiling down
at him. The many majestic banners, which had initially reminded Tremaine of his training days at Vingaard Keep, all bore a stylized profile of
the Kingpriest. Sculpted faces, like the one that hung high on the wall behind Master
Brek, invoked a frozen blessing on the knight.

Worse yet were the statues, especially the one portraying the Kingpriest holding a smiling
baby in one hand and a writhing, many-headed snake in the other. The snake was some
artist's interpretation of the dark goddess Takhisis, Paladine's eternal nemesis. Arryl
was outraged. All knew that Huma, a Knight of Solamnia, had defeated the Dragonqueen! Huma
had invoked the aid of the gods - Paladine - not the Kingpriest!

As for Paladine, the god for whom Istar had originally been erected, he was represented,
but not nearly as often as the master cleric. In fact, many of Paladine's tributes had him
standing shoulder to shoulder with the Kingpriest, as though they were equals!

“Holy Istar seems more concerned with the greater glory of the servant than it does of the
one who is his master,” said Arryl sternly.

Brek paled, cast a darting glance sideways at three men seated in a booth. “If you'll be
excusing me, Sir ... Master Tremaine, I - I must be about helping my wife.” Master Brek
was gone before the knight drew another breath. Apparently speed was not one of the traits
diluted by two generations of sloth.

Shrugging, Arryl turned and headed for the stairs leading to his room. He had much to
think about. The pilgrimage to holy Istar had been a great disappointment. Tremaine hoped
that his evening prayers would give him the answers he needed.

The knight had taken no more than a dozen steps when a voice from a comer table asked
dryly, “Could you spare us a moment, Sir Knight?”

Arryl would have declined, then he noted the silver- and-white robes worn by the three men.

They were clerics of the Order of Paladine. Arryl acknowledged their presence with a
polite nod. “Good evening to you, brothers.”

“May the blessings of the Kingpriest be upon you, brother,” responded the smallest of the
trio. His companions said nothing, merely nodded. It was clear that the one in the middle
was the senior. “Am I correct? Do we have the honor of addressing one of our Solamnic brethren?”

The two acolytes, for that was what they must be, looked more like soldiers than priests.
Of course, the Order of Paladine contained capable fighters, even if they were forbidden
to use blades. They fought with blunt weapons, such as maces, like the ones these two had
resting on the table. Arryl suspected that these two acted as bodyguards for the third,
which said something for his authority and power.

Not that he looked all that powerful. The priest was thin, with slightly hunched
shoulders. His face was long and narrow and reminded Arryl of a rat. Nevertheless, the man
WAS a holy brother.

“I am Arryl Tremaine, Knight of the Sword,” he answered politely.

“As I thought. A Solamnic warrior.” The cleric clasped both hands together. Arryl noted
that the priest wore thin leather gloves that matched the cleric's robes. The index
fingers pressed tight, forming a steeple. The knight wondered if there was something wrong
with the man's hands, that he should hide them under gloves. The weather was certainly not
cold enough to make protection desirable. “Forgive me for not introducing myself,” said
the cleric. “I am Brother Gurim.”

Although it might be a sin in the eyes of Paladine, Tremaine could not help feeling
repulsed by the man's countenance. Brother Gurim had eyes like a rat that watched
everything. His nose was long and crooked. It looked as if it had been broken and had not
healed properly, which made little sense, considering that Gurim should have been able to
heal himself. The priest was nearly bald, his sparse hair combed into a poor semblance of
a monk's crown.

A twisted smile stretched Brother Gurim's thin lips, which only made the resemblance to a
rodent even stronger.

The knight realized he'd been staring impolitely. He finally remembered to acknowledge the
cleric's introduction. “I am honored by your acquaintance. If you will forgive me, I must
retire to my quarters to prepare for evening prayer.”

Gurim nodded in understanding, but did not bid the knight farewell. “How pleasing it is to meet one of our brothers engaged in the struggle
against the Dark Mistress. How pleasing to know that not all of you knights have lapsed in
your faith.”

Arryl was angered, but careful to maintain his poise. “We knights are faithful to the
tenets set down by Paladine. Our faith lapses in man, not the god.”

Gurim nodded and smiled unpleasantly. “Is that so?” The gloved hands separated. Brother
Gurim placed them on the table, palms down. “I shall not detain you from your vigil, then,
Sir Knight. I merely wished to state that I am pleased you are visiting Istar. I pray for
the day when the knighthood once more takes its rightful place as His Holiness's tool
against the minions of evil. Your presence has encouraged me in that respect.”

“I am glad I have pleased you, Brother.” Tremaine bowed low so that the look of disdain
was not visible. The knighthood a TOOL of the Kingpriest? The Knights of Solamnia were as
strong in their beliefs as any in holy Istar. Strong and INDEPENDENT... as Paladine
ordained when he and the gods Habbakuk and Kiri-Jolith appeared before Vinas Solamnus, the
knighthood's founder, and instructed him to break from his evil master, the emperor of
Ergoth.

There had been a knighthood long before there had ever been a Kingpriest.

Tremaine started toward the stairs. Brother Gurim drew a symbol in the air. “Go in peace,
Sir Knight. May the blessings of the Kingpriest be upon you.”

Arryl glanced back. “And may Paladine watch over YOU, Brother.”

Brother Gurim's rat smile remained in Arryl's mind all the way up the stairway and down to
where his quarters were located. Only when he began his evening prayers did the sight at
last fade, and only when he was deep within his own mind did Brother Gurim's distasteful
countenance disappear.

The memory of the man, unfortunately, did not. *****

By the end of his fifth day in the holy city, Arryl Tremaine had seen enough. He doubted
the sanctity of Istar and its leaders. Istar was not the bastion of good that he had imagined during his childhood. It was not the city of miracles. Parts of the city were
beautiful, certainly, but parts of it were ugly, filled with unfortunates living in
poverty and squalor. The bad parts were ignored, however, by most of Istar's citizens, who
seemed to think they might pray them away.

That day, Arryl told Brek he would be leaving Istar on the morrow.

That night, Arryl was within sight of the inn when he heard a stifled cry and a grunt. A
warrior experienced in combat, Arryl recognized the sound of someone being beaten or
stabbed. It came from an alley to his right.

This being holy Istar, the law forbade men to carry weapons, unless they were part of the
priesthood or the city guard. Daggers were allowed, since no one liked to go about the
city completely unarmed, but they were to be bonded, strapped securely in their sheaths.

Arryl struggled with the bond that held his dagger in place as he hurried to the alley.
Whoever had bound the dagger had done a good job, however, and he finally gave up,
deciding to rely upon his other skills instead.

Solinari shone brightly. By the moons light Arryl could see three men fighting among
themselves. Or rather, two of them were beating a third. The two attackers wore swords at
their sides.

When he was almost within arms reach of them, the knight shouted, “Stand away and
surrender!”

The two men released the third, who lay unmoving. One attacker already had a knife out.
The second assailant drew a broadsword. In the shadows, Arryl could not make out the
features of either man, but he guessed their type: bullies, who relied on brute strength
and quick results. Skill was unimportant.

The first slashed with his blade, then tried to follow through with a meaty fist. Tremaine
let the dagger pass him by, fended off the oncoming hand with a sharp blow of his own, and
kicked out with his foot.

The hard toe of his boot caught the man just below the kneecap. Yelping, the attacker fell
to the street, his empty hand clutching his leg.

The tip of a sword grazed Arryl's forearm. Tremaine, rather than stepping back as most
people would have done, dove forward while the second assailant was still completing his swing. His adversary realized what was happening, but by the time he began
to pull his sword back, Arryl had him by the waist.

The two men crashed against the alley wall. The swordsman, caught between the wall and the
Solamnian, grunted, dropped his blade, and tried to regain some of the air that had been
shoved out of his body by the crushing blow.

Tremaine gave him no quarter. With his left hand balled into a fist, he struck his hapless
opponent hard in the stomach.

Folding over, the second man fell.

Arryl heard movement near him, and he kicked out to the side with his foot. The first
attacker, just about to leap, went flying against the opposite wall.

There was no resistance after that.

Barely breathing hard, Arryl looked for the victim. It did not surprise him when he found
no one. The unfortunate had likely crawled off as soon as he had been able to do so. Arryl
could not blame the man. There were few whose courage and abilities matched those of a
Solamnic Knight.

Arryl was just debating what to do with his two charges when a group of armed soldiers,
obviously the city guard, appeared at the end of the alley.

“What goes on here?” asked another man, stepping forward. Unlike the others, he wore the
robes of the priesthood.

“These men were beating another. I ordered them to surrender, but they chose to attack ME
instead.”

The soldiers began to filter into the alley. Several men reached the two dazed assailants
and half-dragged the limp forms away. The cleric, meanwhile, ordered a torch brought so
that he might better survey the scene. After observing the alley and the weapons dropped
by Tremaine's adversaries, the cleric turned his attention to the waiting knight. Seen by
the flickering light of the torch, the priest's pale face and emaciated countenance made
him look like a week-dead corpse.