Steele glanced at the Nightlord. The mage was her prisoner; it was her place to offer him assistance. The Nightlord was regarding them both with a look of displeasure, mingled with—oddly—curiosity. As if she were waiting to see what Steele would do in this situation. He would act as he had been taught to act—with honor. If the Nightlord didn’t like it …
“Lean on my arm, Sir Mage,” Steele Brightblade offered. He spoke coldly, dispassionately, but with respect. “You will find the going easier.”
The White Robe lifted his head, stared in amazement that quickly hardened to wary suspicion.
“What trick is this?”
“No trick, sir. You are in pain, obviously find walking difficult. I am offering you my aid, sir.”
The White Robe’s face twisted in puzzlement. “But … you are one of … Hers.”
“If you mean a servant of our Dark Queen, Takhisis, then you are correct,” Steele Brightblade replied gravely. “I am hers, body and soul. Yet, that does not mean that I am not a man of honor, who is pleased to salute bravery and courage when I see it. I beg you, sir, accept my arm. The way is long and I note that you are wounded.”
The young mage glanced, askance, at the Nightlord, as if thinking she might disapprove. If she did, she said nothing. Her face was devoid of expression.
Hesitantly, obviously still fearing some sort of evil design on the part of his enemy, the White Robe accepted the dark knight’s aid. He obviously expected to be immediately hurled to the ground and stomped and beaten. He looked surprised (and perhaps disappointed) to find that he was not.
The young mage walked easier and faster with Steele’s help. The two soon moved out of the cool shadows of the trees and into the hot sun. At the sight of the landing party, the White Robe’s face registered awe and dismay.
“So many troops …” he said softly, to himself.
“It is no disgrace that your small band lost,” observed Steele Brightblade. “You were vastly outnumbered.”
“Still”—the White Robe spoke through teeth clenched against the pain—“if I had been stronger …” He closed his eyes, swayed on his feet, seemed on the verge of passing out.
The knight supported the fainting mage. Glancing back over his shoulder, Brightblade asked, “Why haven’t the healers, the Knights of the Skull, attended to him, Nightlord?”
“He refused their help,” answered the Nightlord offhandedly. She shrugged. “And, being servants of Her Dark Majesty, there may have been nothing our healers could have done for him anyway.”
Brightblade had no answer for this. He knew very little of the ways of the dark clerics. But he did know how to dress battlefield wounds, having experienced a few of his own.
“I have a recipe for a poultice I’ll give to you,” he promised, assisting the mage to walk once more. “My mother—” He paused, corrected himself. “The woman who raised me taught me how to make it. The herbs are easily found. Your wound is in your side?”
The young mage nodded, pressed his hand against his rib cage. The white cloth of the mage’s robes were soaked in blood, had stuck to the wound. Probably just as well to leave the cloth where it was. It kept the wound sealed.
“A spear,” the young mage replied. “A glancing blow. My brother—”
He halted whatever he had been about to say, fell silent.
Ah, so that’s it, Steele reasoned. That’s why Solamnic knights had a magic-user with them. One brother who fights with the sword, the other with the staff. And that is why he is so anxious to see the dead. He hopes for the best, but in his heart, he must know what he will find. Should I say something to forewarn him? No, he might inadvertently reveal information that would help us.
Steele was not being callous. It was simply that he could not understand the young mage’s obviously intense anxiety over the fate of this brother. Surely, a Knight of Solamnia expected death in battle, even welcomed it! A relative of the honored dead should be proud, not grief stricken.
But this one is young, Brightblade reflected. Impossible to understand. Perhaps this was his first battle. That would explain much.
They continued on across the crowded beach, the knight and his prisoner receiving some curious stares. No one said anything to them, however. The Nightlord followed along behind, her green-eyed gaze never leaving them. Steele could have sworn he felt the fierce intensity burn through his heavy metal breastplate.
The sun had fully risen, dripping with red, by the time they reached the site of the battle, where the bodies of the dead were located. The sunrise had been spectacular, a fiery display of angry reds and triumphant purples, as if the sun were flaunting its power over a blistered and dried-up world. This day would be a scorcher. Not even night would bring relief. Heat would radiate up from the sand, covering those who tried to sleep on it like a smothering blanket. Rest would come tonight only to those too exhausted to notice.
Steele escorted the White Robe to his superior, Subcommander Sequor Trevalin.
“Sir, here is the prisoner, as you commanded.”
The subcommander glanced at the prisoner, then shifted his gaze to the Nightlord who had accompanied them. Trevalin, too, seemed surprised to note the honored company in which they traveled. He saluted the Nightlord, who outranked him.
“I thank you for your assistance in this matter, Madam.”
“I did not see that I had much choice in the matter,” she replied bitterly. “It is Her Majesty’s will.”
The comment apparently greatly puzzled Trevalin. Queen Takhisis oversaw all they did—or so the knights believed—but surely Her Dark Majesty had more important matters than the simple identification of prisoners to occupy the immortal mind. Wizards were strange folk, however, and the Nightlord was stranger than most. Who knew what she meant? Trevalin certainly wasn’t going to ask. He proceeded on swiftly with the task at hand.
“Sir Mage, if you could give us the names and titles of these knights, we will see they are recorded, that posterity may honor their bravery as they deserve.”
The young mage was exhausted by the walk, the heat, and the pain he suffered. He appeared to be dazed, stood looking at the bodies without recognition, as he might have looked at the bodies of strangers. His arm, resting on Steele’s, trembled.
“Perhaps, sir,” Steele suggested, “if the mage might have some water. Or a cup of wine.”
“Certainly.” Trevalin supplied not wine, but a cup of potent brandy he kept in a flask on his belt.
The young mage drank it heedlessly, probably not knowing what passed his lips. But the first sip brought some color back to the pale cheeks. That and the brief rest appeared to have helped. He even went so far as to thrust aside the Steele’s arm and stand on his own.
The White Robe closed his eyes. His lips moved. He appeared to be offering up a prayer, for Steele thought he heard the whispered word: “Paladine.”
Strength restored, probably more from the prayer than the brandy, the young mage limped over to the first of the dead. The White Robe bent down, drew aside the cape that had been laid over the face. A tremor of relief, as well as sorrow, shook his voice as he pronounced the name and the title, adding the knight’s homeland.
“Sir Llewelyn ap Ellsar, Knight of the Rose from Guthar of Sancrist”
He moved down the row of dead with more strength and fortitude than the young knight would have first credited him.
“Sir Horan Devishtor, Knight of the Crown from Palanthas township, Sir Yori Beck, Knight of the Crown from Caergoth, Sir Perceival Nelish …”
A scribe—summoned by Subcommander Trevalin—followed after, recording all the details on a horn slate.
And then the young mage came to the last two bodies. He stopped, looked back over the row of dead. Everyone there could see him taking count. He bowed his head, pressed his hand over his eyes, and did not move.
Steele moved to Trevalin’s side.
“He mentioned something to me about a brother, sir.”
Trevalin nodded
in understanding, said nothing. The White Robe had revealed all the officer needed to know. There were no more knights, none had escaped.
The White Robe knelt down. With a trembling hand, he drew aside the cape that covered the still, cold face. He choked on his grief, sat huddled near the body.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the scribe. “I didn’t understand what you said. This man’s name?”
“Majere,” whispered the White Robe brokenly. “Sturm Majere. And that”—he moved to lift the cape that covered the other knight’s face—“is Tanin Majere.”
Bending over them, he wiped the blood from the shattered faces, kissed each one on the chill forehead.
“My brothers.”
Chapter 2
Cousins. A Debt of honor.
A Death sentence. The parole.
“Majere.” Steele turned to face the young mage. “Majere. I know that name.”
Overcome by his grief, the White Robe did not respond. He had probably not even heard. The Nightlord heard, however. She made a soft hissing sound, breath drawn inward. The green eyes shut partway. She gazed at Steele from beneath lowered lids.
He paid no attention to the Nightlord. Steele walked forward, came to stand beside the mage.
“Majere. Caramon Majere. These”—Steele indicated the dead knights—“must be his two eldest sons. And you are the younger. You are the son of Caramon Majere?”
“I am Palin,” the young mage answered brokenly. With one hand, he brushed back the hair from his brother’s cold forehead. The other hand clung tightly to the staff, as if drawing from it the strength that was keeping him alive. “Palin Majere.”
“Son of Caramon Majere. Nephew of Raistlin Majere!” the Nightlord whispered with sibilant emphasis.
At this, Subcommander Trevalin—who had been paying scant attention, mulling over in his mind the logistics of moving the bodies, the detailing of men to the task—lifted his head, looked with greater interest at the young White Robe.
“The nephew of Raistlin Majere?” he repeated.
“A great prize,” said the Nightlord. “A valuable prize. His uncle was the most powerful wizard who ever walked Ansalon.” But even as she talked about Palin, the Nightlord kept her eyes on Steele.
The knight did not notice. Staring down at the bodies, yet not truly seeing them, he was turning something over in his mind, making some difficult decision, to judge by the dark expression on his face.
And then Palin stirred, lifted his eyes that were red-rimmed with tears. “You are Steele. Steele Brightblade. Son of Sturm—” His voice broke again as he spoke the name that was the same as his brother’s.
Steele said, almost to himself, “A strange coincidence, our meeting like this.…”
“No coincidence,” stated the Nightlord loudly. The green eyes were jeweled slits. “I tried to prevent it, but Her Dark Majesty prevailed. And what does it mean? What does it portend?”
Steele cast the woman an exasperated glance. The knight had great respect for the Nightlords and their work. Unlike the Knights of Solamnia, who scorn to blend blade with magic, the Knights of Takhisis used mage-craft in their battles. Wizards were given rank and status equal to that of warrior knights; wizards held honored and respected places at all levels of command. But there was still occasionally friction between the two groups, although Lord Ariakan tried his best to eliminate it. The practical soldier, who saw straight from point A to point ? and nothing else, could not hope to understand the wizard, who saw not only A and ? but all the shifting planes of existence encompassed between.
And of all the Thorn Knights, this woman was the most impractical—seeing six sides to every four-sided object, as the saying went; constantly searching for meaning in the slightest incident; casting her seeing stones three times a day; peering into the entrails of roosters. Subcommander Trevalin and his staff had discussed, more than once, the difficulties encountered in working with her.
A coincidence. Nothing more. And not such a strange one at that. Knights of Solamnia with a mage-brother meeting their cousin, a Knight of Takhisis. The world was at war, though not all the world was aware of it at this time. These three would have surely met at some future date. Steele was thankful for one thing. He was thankful for the fact that he had not been responsible for the deaths of the two Majere boys. He would have been doing his duty, after all, but still, it made things easier. He turned to his commanding officer.
“Subcommander Trevalin. I ask a favor. Grant me permission to take the bodies of these two knights back to their homeland for burial. I will, at the same time, deliver the White Robe to his people and collect his ransom.”
Trevalin regarded Steele in amazement; Palin stared at him in stupefaction. The Nightlord muttered and snorted and shook her head.
“Where is their homeland?” Trevalin asked.
“Solace, in central Abanasinia, just north of Qualinost. Their father is an innkeeper there.”
“But that is far into enemy territory. You would be in immense danger. If you had some special mission related to the Vision, then, yes, I would approve. But this”—Trevalin waved a careless hand—“to deliver bodies … No, you are too good a soldier to risk losing you, Brightblade. I cannot grant your request.” The elder knight looked curiously at the younger. “You do not act on whims, Brightblade. What is your reason for making this strange request?”
“The father, Caramon Majere, is my uncle, half-brother to my mother, Kitiara uth Matar. The dead knights and the mage are my cousins. In addition”—Steele’s face remained impassive, expressionless, his tone matter-of-fact—“Caramon Majere saved my life during a fight when I was almost captured in the High Clerist’s Tower. I owe a debt of honor. According to Lord Ariakan, a debt of honor is to be repaid at the first opportunity. I would take this opportunity to repay mine.”
Subcommander Trevalin did not hesitate. “Caramon Majere saved your life? Yes, I recall hearing this story. And these are his sons?” The knight gave the matter serious consideration, comparing it in his mind to the Vision—the Grand Plan of the Dark Queen. Each knight—at his investiture—was given the Vision, shown how his single thread was woven into the immense Tapestry. Nothing was allowed to conflict with the Vision, not even a debt of honor.
However, the battle was over. The objective won. The dark knights would spend time establishing their beachhead before moving on west. Trevalin could not see that any one knight would be missed, at least not in the near future. And it was always in the Knights’ interest to gain as much information about the enemy as possible. Steele would undoubtedly see and hear much on his journey into enemy territory that would be useful later.
“I grant you leave to go, Brightblade. The trip will be dangerous, but the greater the danger, the greater the glory. You will return the bodies of these knights to their homeland for burial. As to the White Robe’s ransom, the decision as to what to do with him is up to our worthy comrade.”
Trevalin looked to the Nightlord, who had been seething with indignation at being left out of the decision-making process. She was not Steele’s commander, and could have no say in the matter of his going or coming. The White Robe was her prisoner, however, and in that, she did have the right to decide what to do with him.
She pondered the matter, torn—apparently—between her longing to keep hold of the mage and her longing for whatever ransom his return might bring. Or perhaps something else was disturbing her. Her gaze flitted from Steele to Palin and her green eyes burned.
“The White Robe has been sentenced to die,” she said abruptly.
“What? Why? For what cause?” Trevalin was amazed and, it seemed, impatient. “He surrendered. He is a prisoner of war. He has the right to be ransomed.”
“The ransom demand was already made,” the Nightlord returned. “He refused. Therefore, his life is forfeit.”
“Is this true, young man?” Trevalin regarded Palin sternly. “Did you refuse the ransom?”
“They asked for what I c
annot give,” Palin said. His hand tightened around the wood of the staff and all present knew immediately what the ransom demand had been. “The staff is not mine. It has been loaned to me, that is all.”
“The staff?” Trevalin turned to the Nightlord. “All you wanted was that staff? If he refused, then take the damn thing!”
“I tried.” The Nightlord exhibited her right hand. The palm was blistered, burned.
“Did you do that, White Robe?” Trevalin asked.
Palin met his gaze, his eyes clear, though red-rimmed with unshed tears. “Does it matter, sir? The Staff of Magius was given to me in sacred trust. I do not ‘own’ it. I have only limited control over it. The staff belongs to no one, only to itself. Yet, I will not part with it, not to save my life.”
Both dark paladins were impressed with the young man’s answer. The Nightlord was not. She glowered at them all, rubbed her injured hand.
“An interesting problem,” Trevalin remarked. “A man cannot be constrained to pay for his life with that which he does not own. He may go to his friends and family and ask them to raise ransom money for him, but he may not steal from them. The young man is honor-bound to refuse to turn over the staff. You, Madam, may therefore claim his life. But it seems to me that this would not conform to the Vision.”
The Nightlord cast Trevalin a sharp glance, opened her mouth to protest. The Vision took precedence above everything, and so she had to remain silent until he finished.
“The Vision requires us to advance the cause of Her Dark Majesty in all things, in all ways. Taking this young man’s life does nothing to advance the cause. His soul would fly to Paladine, who would be the gainer, not us. However, if we barter this young man’s life for something else, some powerful magical object the wizards of Wayreth have in their possession …”
The Nightlord’s stern expression softened. She regarded Palin speculatively and, oddly enough, her glance went to Steele, as well. “Perhaps,” she was heard to mutter to herself, “perhaps this is the reason. Very well,” she said aloud. “I bow to your wisdom, Subcommander Trevalin. There is one article we will accept in ransom for Palin Majere. Steele Brightblade shall bring it to us.” She paused dramatically.
The Second Generation Page 47