The Reign Of Istar (8 page)

Rakiel was ranting on. “And so short. He hardly looks human. Do you suppose he's ...”

Moran, staring out the window, said absently, “Loraine was very short.”

*****

IT WAS THE HOTTEST SUMMER ANYONE COULD REMEMBER. ALL THE TRAVELERS WHO HAD TARPS PUT THEM
UP AND WERE LYING UNDER THEM. THE OTHERS TRUDGED AS FAR AS THE CITY WALLS AND LAY IN THE
NARROW MIDDAY SHADOWS.

ONLY MORAN RODE ON, A THIN, TIRED KNIGHT PULLING A CART THAT HELD A SWORD, A SHIELD, AND A
CORPSE. THE BODY HAD BEEN REVERENTLY WRAPPED IN A BLANKET. MORAN HAD KEPT IT COOL WITH
WATER FROM HIS PRECIOUS TRAVEL RATION. HE PASSED THE OBELISK AT THE EDGE OF TOWN, GLANCED AT THE FINAL LINE ON IT:

THE GODS REWARD US IN THE GRACE OF OUR HOME HE TURNED AWAY.

MORAN RODE PAST THE NEARLY COMPLETED TEMPLE OF MISHAKAL. SEVERAL WANDERERS GAWKED AT IT,
ALL OF THEM MORE IMPRESSED WITH THE STONEWORK THAN A SINGLE DUSTY KNIGHT OF SOLAMNIA.

HE KNOCKED AT A SHABBY WOODEN BUILDING. ITS STONE REAR WALL WAS A SIDE WALL OF THE
ENTRANCE GATE FOR THE STAIRCASE CALLED “THE PATHS OF THE DEAD.” A YOUNG GIRL ANSWERED.

“I'M LOOKING FOR ALWYN THE GRAVER,” SAID MORAN.

“HE'S BOUGHT INTO HIS OWN WARES,” THE GIRL SAID SIMPLY. “THE BUSINESS IS MINE NOW. I'M
LORAINE.”

MORAN LOOKED AT HER AND THOUGHT AT FIRST, “NOTHING BUT A CHILD.” HE LOOKED AT HER EYES AND
QUICKLY REALIZED THAT SHE WAS A WOMAN - JUST GROWN SHORTER THAN MOST.

LORAINE COULDN'T SEE OVER THE CART SIDES. SHE CLIMBED ONE OF THE WHEELS, STARED IN, THEN
GASPED AT THE SIGHT OF THE SWORD AND SHIELD. “WHO IS IT?” SHE WAS LIKE A CHILD AT A PUPPET
SHOW, WAITING FOR THE NEXT SURPRISE.

HER SHINING RED HAIR SPILLED OVER HER SHOULDERS AS SHE LEANED IN, WATCHING MORAN UNWRAP
THE BODY: TALISIN, HIS BLACK MOUSTACHE EVEN BLACKER AGAINST HIS ICE- WHITE SKIN. THE BACK
OF HIS HELM WAS SPLIT IN HALF.

MORAN SAID DULLY, “THE GREATEST SWORDSMAN SINCE BRIGHTBLADE, KILLED BY A THROWN AXE.”

HE TURNED ON HER, SHAMED BY THE STING OF TEARS IN HIS EYES. “MEND THE ROBE, PATCH THE
CAPE, GIVE HIM NEW LEGGINGS - EVERYTHING. HE'LL BE ENTOMBED WITH HIS FAMILY; HE'S NOBLE,
AND A HERO, AND THE BEST - ” MORAN COULDN'T TALK ANYMORE. LORAINE, SURPRISINGLY STRONG, ROLLED THE CART INSIDE BY HERSELF. SHE QUICKLY MEASURED THE BODY AND FIGURED CLOTH AND LABOR COSTS
WHILE MORAN STOOD BY, EMPTY WITH GRIEF.

“COME BACK IN TWO DAYS,” SHE SAID.

AS HE TURNED TO GO, SHE LAID HER HAND ON HIS ARM. “AND COME BACK OFTEN AFTER THAT.” HE
NOTICED HOW CLEAR HER EYES WERE, HOW SOFT HER VOICE COULD BE. “YOU'LL NEED TO TALK, AND I
- ” SHE LOOKED SUDDENLY EMBARRASSED AND STRAIGHTENED HER GOWN, PATTED HER HAIR OVER HER
EARS. “YOU'RE LIKE NO ONE I'VE MET. I LOVE STRANGE PLACES AND STRANGE MEN.”

AS HE LEFT, HE HEARD HER SINGING, IN A CLEAR, YOUNG VOICE, “ 'RETURN HIS SOUL TO HUMA'S
BREAST ...' ” MORAN HAD SUNG THE SONG HIMSELF, IN A VOICE CRACKED WITH GRIEF, TWO DAYS AGO.

TO HIS SURPRISE, HE CAME BACK TO SEE HER WITHIN A WEEK AFTER THE FUNERAL.

*****

On the front wall of the classroom hung a tapestry (on loan from the permanent gallery of
the city fathers) picturing knights riding silver and gold dragons, aiming lances at red
dragons and riders. The dragons, woven in metal thread, glittered disturbingly in the grim
gray hall.

The novices were excited. Two of them were leaping benches in mock swordplay, and almost
all of the rest were ringed around the term's first fight: two boys, rolling on the floor.

Moran strode into the room, carrying two breastplates. The boys froze in place, then
drifted to seats. Tarli's lower lip was bleeding. Another novice - Saliak, Moran noted -
had bloody knuckles.

Oh-ho, Moran thought. It's starting already. He walked in silence to the flat table below
the tapestry and turned to face the novices, who were now sitting quietly on the low
wooden benches. Only Tarli, sitting apart from the others, was too short for his feet to touch the floor. Two other novices sat apart: the
ungainly tall boy, and the fat one. Moran, from long experience, knew that the three would be targets in the
barracks.

He slammed one of the breastplates on the table. It clanged loudly. All the boys jumped.

“This,” he said coldly, “is the armor of a Knight of the Sword. The hole you see was made
in combat, by a lance.”

This,“ he said, slamming the second breastplate on the table, ”was worn in the last week
of drill by a novice, training to become a squire. The hole was made in practice, by a
lance.

“The holes are exactly alike. So were the wounds - both fatal.”

In the silence that followed, a number of boys glanced at each other nervously.

“Can a lance really go through armor like that?” Tarli asked with interest.

Silently, Moran turned the breastplates around, showing the small exit holes the lance
points had made. One of the novices gagged.

Moran looked and found him. “Janeel. You have something to say?”

The boy coughed, cleared his throat. “Sir, if it would help the training, my father knows
a true healer.”

Moran said flatly, “While you are training there will be no plate armor and no healers.”

He let that sink in. “The greatest favor that I can do the Knights of Solamnia is to kill
any of you who can't defend yourselves, before you fail in the field, where other knights
are depending on you. When a novice dies, I offer thanks to Paladine that it happened here
and not later. That is why” - he lowered his voice slightly - “I give you every chance to
die that I can manufacture, before you are even squires.”

Moran moved to the door at the back of the room. “I'll be back. If any of you want to
leave, do it now.” He eyed Saliak, who already had the look of a leader. “Don't shame
anyone into staying. That's a little like murder.”

He walked out and went to reinspect the drill equipment.

A short time later he walked back in and went straight to the front. When he turned
around, he saw a group of frightened but determined novices, who had just learned that honor could be fatal but were willing to be honorable. Where Tarli had been, he saw
an empty space. He was relieved, both for the boy and for himself, but he also felt a sudden, sharp disappointment that only the Mask kept him from showing.

“Those of you who remain,” he said, “may die for it. Some in training, some in service,
and some in combat - yes, even in these times.” The pain of this next story was duller
after all these years. “The knight I first squired for was killed in combat. I have vowed,
since then, to prepare each novice well for an honorable life and a fitting death.”

They stared at him, and he let it sink in. For the first time, these boys were getting
some sense of what their deaths might look like. They were also feeling, for the first
time in their lives, grown-up courage.

He looked at the faces in front of him and felt relieved that Tarli had left; the boy had
an innocence that would be destroyed by training -

A terrible growl came from directly underneath Saliak, who let out a startled,
high-pitched shriek, leapt straight up, and scrambled over the second and third row of
benches to find the door. Most of the others jumped, but settled back embarrassedly.

Saliak made it almost to the door before he turned to see. Smiling innocently, Tarli
crawled out from under the front bench. He took a seat in Saliak's place.

Saliak slunk back and sat next to Tarli.

Tarli, bright eyed and grinning, said to Moran, “Excuse me, Sire.”

The Mask stayed in place, not acknowledging what had happened, but Moran didn't miss the
stony glares of the embarrassed novices, or the utter hatred on the face of the humiliated
Saliak.

Tarli, Tarli, Moran thought with a surprising rush of exasperated fondness, I couldn't
have charted a rougher path for you than you just mapped out for yourself.

When class was over, Rakiel stepped out from behind the dragon-covered tapestry. He'd been
observing. “What do you think of them?” he asked.

“The usual,” Moran answered shortly. “Too much ambition, too much energy, not enough
thought.”

Rakiel chuckled. “And can you make them think?” “Fear can.” Moran looked out the window,
saw Saliak take an ill-advised swipe at the back of Tarli's head. Tarli heard it coming - how, Moran
couldn't imagine - and ducked the blow. Saliak stumbled. Tarli, stepping aside, let him
fall. Saliak, without getting up, threw a well-aimed stone, which struck Tarli in the
shoulder.

Moran turned from the window. “This afternoon we start with the first lance drill. That
would scare anyone. They'll think about what they're doing, from then on.”

“Even that Tarli?” Rakiel shook his head. “Face it, he's not fit to be here. He's a head
shorter than any of them, and he's making enemies already.” He grimaced with distaste.
“Moreover, he plays jokes like a kender. Frankly, I don't think some paltry lance drill
will make him think.”

“ 'Some paltry drill'? Perhaps you should try it, then.”

Rakiel glanced at the tapestry; his eyes lingered on the lance points. “Some other time.
Draconniel tonight?”

Moran glanced pointedly at the niche behind the tapestry. “I'll be observing the boys
tonight. Over dinner? It would be my pleasure.” And, oddly, it was a pleasure. At least
Rakiel was someone to talk to.

The oddity didn't escape Rakiel. “ 'Your pleasure'? Really, Moran, you must be starved for
company.”

*****

HE WAS LONELY FOR THE FIRST TIME IN HIS LIFE. HE SPENT MOST OF THE SUMMER WITH HER.

FIRST HE TOLD HER ABOUT PLACES HE'D VISITED, THEN HE TALKED ABOUT TALISIN AND HOW IT HAD
HURT TO SEE HIM DIE IN SOME MINOR SKIRMISH WITH A BUNCH OF GOBLINS.

FINALLY HE TOLD HER HIS DEEPEST SECRET: THAT HE WAS NO LONGER SURE WHAT BEING A KNIGHT
MEANT, AND THAT HE WONDERED WHETHER OR NOT, BY DOUBTING THE MEASURE, HE HAD VIOLATED THE
OATH.

LORAINE LAUGHED, AS SHE OFTEN DID, AND TOLD HIM HE WAS TOO SERIOUS. HE TRIED TO RUFFLE HER
HAIR, AS HE OFTEN DID, AND AS ALWAYS SHE DUCKED AWAY UNDER HIS HAND.

EVERY MORNING THAT SUMMER, MORAN WOKE UP ANGRY. AT NIGHT, ANGER TURNED TO PASSION, AS IT
SOMETIMES DOES TO MAKE AGING MEN FEEL YOUNG. HE LAY AWAKE FOR HOURS THE NIGHT LORAINE, LEAPING UP, KISSED HIS NOSE (HE CAUGHT
HER, AS HE ALWAYS DID) AND SAID, “I HOPE YOUR HONOR IS NEVER AS SOFT AS YOUR TOUCH.”

IS IT, HE WONDERED? DO I WANT TO STAY A KNIGHT AND LIVE FOR A WAR THAT WILL NEVER COME, OR
WOULD I RATHER GIVE MY WHOLE LIFE TO LORAINE?

THAT WAS EIGHTEEN SUMMERS AGO, SHORTLY BEFORE TARLI WAS BORN.

*****

In the afternoon breeze, the wooden saddle-mounts creaked on the ropes and pulleys. The
squires looked from the mounts to the rack of shields and metal-tipped lances, and stared
uneasily at the suspicious-looking rust-brown stains on the courtyard stones. The stones
had been scrubbed well, but the stains were too deep to come out.

Moran was proud of those stains; he'd spent much of last week painting them on and aging
them. “Right.”

All heads turned. He stood in the archway, a twelve- foot lance tucked under his arm as
easily as if it were a riding whip.

He saluted with the lance, missing the arch top by inches. He flipped the lance over his
right shoulder, then his left, then spun it around twice and tucked it under his arm, all
without scraping the arch.

Tarli applauded. His clapping slowed, then stopped, under his classmates' cold stares.

“The lance,” Moran said loudly, “is the knights' weapon of tradition. Huma consecrated
one, called Huma's Grace, to Paladine. A single knight, with a single lance, defeated
forty-two mounted enemies during the Siege of Tarsis.”

He looked over the group with disdain. “Let me also mention that your lance may - just may
- keep you alive while you are squires. Later you'll train with footmen's lances. For now
- ” He pointed the lance suddenly under Saliak's nose, then transferred the lance to his
left hand and all but stabbed Tarli. “You and you, choose lances and mount up.”

Saliak flinched. Tarli, to Moran's pleasure, did not even blink. “On the barrels?” Tarli cried in excitement. He stared at the wooden mounts, whose reins ran through eyelets to join the pulley ropes.

“They're not barrels, runtlet,” Saliak hissed.

Tarli shrugged. “They're not horses, either. What are they supposed to be?”

Saliak said, “Who cares,” and pulled the first lance from the rack. He snapped it up, then
down, in a clumsy salute. He was long-limbed and strong. Despite his inexperience, he
could control the lance well.

Tarli lifted his own lance upright and staggered as the weight toppled him backward.

“It's too long,” he complained. His classmates snickered.

Moran regarded him solemnly. “Grow into it.” Saliak laughed loudly. Carrying his lance
clumsily by the middle, Tarli walked over to his mount, which was scored with lance hits. A stubby board projected from
under each side of the saddle. He studied them. “If these were bigger, I'd say they were
wings.”

He turned to face Moran, his face alight. “It's supposed to be a dragon, isn't it? You're
training us to fight dragons, like in the classroom tapestry.”

Good guess, Moran thought. Once that was probably true; now the drill was kept to honor
Huma and to make beginning squires feel clumsy and humble.

Aloud he said only, “Spotters,” and passed the ropes to the boys. “When I give the signal,
raise the mounts into the air. Riders, mount up, take reins and shields, and fasten your
lances.”

The two combatants straddled their mounts. Saliak sat easily and comfortably with bent
knees, the unmistakable pose of someone who had owned and ridden horses. Tarli could only
reach the stirrups by half-standing.

They set the lances in the saddle-mounted swivels. The greater weight of the lance was in
front. Tarli kept his weapon upright by putting nearly his full weight on the butt end. He
swung the point up clumsily.

Saliak swung his sideways, up, down, and circled it. He smiled at Tarli. “Say good-bye.”