Oath and the Measure
Page 1
As Lord Wilderness touched the wound in his chest, it puckered and closed like a scar in living wood. Serenely his eyes sought Sturm’s.
“It has come to this, young Brightblade. You have made your point and mine,” Vertumnus announced, and the stones at his feet grew over with thick moss.
“The rest is your own foolishness. You have entered my game. Which, alas, you must now play to its end, as your injured shoulder will tell you daily and nightly.
“Meet me on the first day of spring,” Vertumnus ordered, again with a strange smile. “In my stronghold amid the Southern Darkwoods. Come there alone, and we shall settle this—sword to sword, knight to knight, man to man. You have defended your father’s honor, and now I challenge yours. For now I owe you a stroke, as you owe me a life. For it is written in your cherished Measure that any man who returns a blow must stay the course of battle.…”
THE DRAGONLANCE® SAGA
CHRONICLES TRILOGY
DRAGONS OF AUTUMN TWILIGHT
DRAGONS OF WINTER NIGHT
DRAGONS OF SPRING DAWNING
LEGENDS TRILOGY
TIME OF THE TWINS
WAR OF THE TWINS
TEST OF THE TWINS
THE ART OF THE DRAGONLANCE SAGA
THE ATLAS OF THE DRAGONLANCE SAGA
TALES TRILOGY
THE MAGIC OF KRYNN
KENDER, GULLY DWARVES, AND GNOMES
LOVE AND WAR
HEROES TRILOGY
THE LEGEND OF HUMA
STORMBLADE
WEASEL’S LUCK
PRELUDES TRILOGY
DARKNESS AND LIGHT
KENDERMORE
BROTHERS MAJERE
HEROES II TRILOGY
KAZ, THE MINOTAUR
THE GATES OF THORBARDIN
GALEN BEKNIGHTED
PRELUDES II TRILOGY
RIVERWIND, THE PLAINSMAN
FLINT, THE KING
TANIS, THE SHADOW YEARS
ELVEN NATIONS TRILOGY
FIRSTBORN
THE KINSLAYER WARS
THE QUALINESTI
MEETINGS SEXTET
KINDRED SPIRITS
WANDERLUST
DARK HEART
THE OATH AND THE MEASURE
STEEL AND STONE
THE COMPANIONS
THE OATH AND THE MEASURE
DRAGONLANCE® Meetings Sextet • Volume Four
©1992 TSR, Inc.
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www.DungeonsandDragons.com
v3.1
For Margaret Weis
Contents
Cover
Other Books in the Series
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Chapter 1 - A Surprising Banquet
Chapter 2 - The Call of the Measure
Chapter 3 - Inns and Remembrances
Chapter 4 - A Parting Story
Chapter 5 - Of Departures and Schemes
Chapter 6 - The Darkwoods
Chapter 7 - Castle di Caela
Chapter 8 - Encounter by Moonlight
Chapter 9 - Of Mara and the Spider
Chapter 10 - A Change in the Weather
Chapter 11 - The Surprising Visitor
Chapter 12 - Not Far from the Tree
Chapter 13 - A Ride Back in Memory
Chapter 14 - Dun Ringhill
Chapter 15 - What the Druidess Knew
Chapter 16 - Into the Darkwoods
Chapter 17 - A Battle in the Clearing
Chapter 18 - Of Shadow and Light
Chapter 19 - The Dream of the Lark
Chapter 20 - The Last of the Dreaming
Chapter 21 - The Turning Away
Chapter 22 - At the Ford of the Vingaard
Chapter 23 - Always the First of Spring
Chapter 24 - Arms Courteous and a Judgment
Epilogue: Of Remembrances and Inns
About the Author
Chapter 1
A Surprising Banquet
———
Lord Alfred MarKenin grew restless as he stood before his place at table. He shivered and rubbed his hands back to life and let his eyes wander through the council hall. Tonight it was a cold sea of banners.
The standards of the great Solamnic houses hung ghostly and strange in the wavering torchlight. The old fabric, once brilliant and thick, now gossamer with age, lifted slightly and floated as the winter wind trickled through the drafty hall. The sign of MarKenin was there, of course, and the farfetched signs of Kar-thon and of MarThasal, interwoven designs of suns, kingfishers, and stars. Among them hung proudly the intertwined roses of Uth Wistan and the phoenix of House Peres. The lesser houses—Inverno and Crownguard and Ledyard and Jeoffrey—were also represented, and their colors fluttered dimly across one another as the banners settled. The first solemnities were observed, and three hundred Knights of Solamnia seated themselves to wait out the death of the year.
For isn’t this the beginning and end of the Yuletide? Lord Alfred asked himself as simple Jack, a transplanted gardener, awkwardly lit the candles on the table. The death of another year?
The powerful Knight, High Justice of the Solamnic Order, shifted uncomfortably in the high-backed mahogany chair at the head of the longest table. He dreaded the unexplainable, and the unexplainable was no doubt approaching as the candlelight swelled and lengthened. He looked about, into the faces of his cohorts and lieutenants. They were numerous and as varied as gemstones, and in their eyes, he saw their reflections on this ceremonial night.
Lord Gunthar Uth Wistan sat to his left, stocky and scarcely thirty, though his hair was already steely gray. After Lord Boniface Crownguard, whose honor was legendary, Gunthar was the most skillful swordsman at the banquet. Such men were always impatient with ceremonies like this, finding them somehow too settled and pretty. Lord Alfred sympathized and continued to watch his friend. Gunthar plainly wanted it over with—all of it, from meal to ritual to the grand disruptions. Uneasily he stared out across the vast armada of standards to where darkness swallowed the silk and linen and damask, to the place where Lord Boniface, his marginally friendly rival, also sat with an entourage of youthful admirers—squires who mimicked his attitude and envied the great man’s swordsmanship.
No doubt a similar impatience
rose from those shadows. Though Gunthar claimed that Boniface wore the waiting more gracefully in his ardor for Oath and Measure, there was something else to the big Knight’s restlessness and silence, thought Alfred. To Gunthar’s way of thinking, ceremony was the delay between battles, but to Boniface, it was the battle proper.
To Lord Alfred’s right, Lord Stephan Peres, an ancient veteran on his last but extraordinarily durable legs, had seated himself with an audible creak and a quiet groan. Alfred leaned back, drumming his gloved fingers across the dark arms of the chair, then raised his right hand. At his signal, the music began. It was a ponderous march, slow and melancholy as befit the dirge for the year, the three hundred and forty-first since the Cataclysm.
Beside the High Justice, old Lord Stephan smiled faintly in his forest of a beard. He was a tall man and lean, having parried gracefully that tendency of the older Knights to sink into heaviness and dreams. They said it was eccentricity that had kept him healthy—that and the gift of being amused at just about anything that came to pass in the Tower and the Order.
Tonight, though, the old man’s amusement was strained. The end of his eighty-fifth year approached, and with it, as always, this ceremony of memory where the halls were decked with banners. He was weary of it all: the pomp and the trumpetry, the abyss of winter, December’s winds full bitter in the Vingaard Mountains.
Lord Stephan raised his glass, and with lowered eyes, Jack filled it once more with amber Kharolian wine. Through its glistening gold, Stephan watched the squires’ table nearest that of Lord Boniface, focusing on a solitary wavering candle in the ceremonial darkness.
A young man sat by the flame, lost in thought. Sturm Brightblade, it was. A southerner from Solace, though his family was northern, ancient in the Order.
The image of Angriff Brightblade, Lord Stephan thought. Of Angriff Brightblade and of Emelin before him, and of Bayard and Helmar and every Brightblade all the way back to Bertel, to the founding of the line in the Age of Might.
Sturm would have been pleased with Stephan’s thoughts, for after all, it was to find his place in that chain that he had returned to beleaguered Solamnia after six years of exile. Smuggled from Castle Brightblade one winter’s night in his eleventh year, he remembered his father in images and episodes, as a series of events rather than a living person. From the beginning, Angriff Brightblade had concerned himself with Solamnic duties, leaving the lad to the care of his mother and the servants.
Sturm, though, had fabled a father from scattered memories, from his mother’s stories, and no doubt from sheer imagining. Angriff grew kinder and more courageous the longer the boy dreamed, and dreams became his refuge in Abanasinia, far away from the Solamnic courts, among indifferent southerners in a nondescript hamlet called Solace. There his mother, the Lady Ilys, raised him with more tutors than friends, schooling him in courtesy and lore and his heritage.…
And ruining him, Lord Stephan thought with a smile, for anything except Solamnic Knighthood.
Ilys had died of the plague. They said the boy had dismissed his few friends and grieved alone, in silence and with the proper vigils. That fall, Lords Gunthar and Boniface, who had been Angriff Brightblade’s closest friends, arranged to have Sturm brought back to Thelgaard Keep, where he could be trained further in the ways of the Order.
Sturm hadn’t taken to the North at first. He was smart, that was certain, and the years of genteel poverty had toughened him in ways that the northern boys secretly envied: He was knowledgeable in the woods and rode horseback like a seasoned Knight. But his southern ways and old Solamnic charm seemed like relics of the last generation to the urbane younger men, squires and Knights from prominent Solamnic families. They called him “Grandpa Sturm” and laughed at his accent, his storehouse of remembered poetry, his attempts to grow a mustache.
They once laughed at his father, too, Stephan mused. Some laughed right up until the night of the siege.
It was hard going at Sturm’s table, this or any night.
“Where is your banner, Brightblade?” Derek Crownguard hissed mockingly over the boards. He was nephew to the great swordsman and exceeding proud of his family ties, though he hadn’t yet proved whether he shared more than blood and a name with his legendary uncle.
Derek sneered, and his burly companions, all hangers-on to the Crownguards of Foghaven, stifled their laughter. Two of them looked nervously to the High Table, where the assembled lords sat lost in memory and ritual, from the oldest loremaster and counselor to the younger war leaders, such as Gunthar and Boniface. Assured that their masters’ gazes rested elsewhere, the squires turned back like hyenas, grinning and eager to feast.
“Be still, Derek!” Sturm Brightblade muttered, his brown eyes averted. It was a weak retort, the lad knew, and yet it was all he could summon against the vicious teasing of the other squires. Derek was the worst, all puffed and proud at being Lord Boniface’s chosen squire, but all were difficult, all scornful and superior. His friends Caramon and Raistlin had warned Sturm in long conversations over firelight and ale that talk at the Tower of the High Clerist was quick and sharp and often political. When Sturm’s fellows turned upon him with their edged words and jests about his missing father, he felt rural and awkward and disinherited.
And in fact, was he not all those things?
Sturm flushed angrily, clenching his whitened fists under the table. Derek snorted in triumph and turned to the center of the hall, where the ceremonies continued, as they had for a thousand years in this very room. The harpist, a silver-haired elf in a plain blue tunic, had stepped out from the swirl of banners, and there in the red tilt of light cast by the encircling torches, had begun to play the time-honored Song of Huma, that old contraption of myth and high-blown heroics. “Out of the village,” it began,
… out of the thatched and clutching shires,
Out of the grave and furrow, furrow and grave,
Where his sword first tried the last cruel dances of childhood,
And awoke to the shires forever retreating, his greatness a marshfire,
The banked flight of the Kingfisher always above him.…
Quietly the Knights began to mouth the words, and slowly the song rose in the torchlit room—the tale of Huma’s love and sacrifice and enshrinement. Sturm’s anger subsided as he, like the rest of the young men who sat around him, entered the world of the story.
Sturm knew the tradition. If the song were sung perfectly and in unison on a night of special auspice, a night such as Yuletide or Midsummer, Lord Huma himself would return and be seated among the singers. That was why the foremost place at the foremost table was always left empty. Slowly the lad joined in, breathing the words as the room filled with the sound of a soft wind, of one clear elven voice raised in song and three hundred others whispering. Only the youngest still held out hope that extraordinary things would happen at this or at any Yuletide.
So they continued, chanting monotonously, until the outburst of the flute startled them all.
From the rafters, the harsh tune tumbled, frenzied and playful, and with the music a rain of light, green and golden, dispersed the shadows in the great hall and dazzled the astonished Knights. At once the whispering faded into silence along with the song of the bard as the new, discordant music rose and quickened and the chamber swelled with its notes. It was like the trilling of birds, or the droning of bees, or the whine of wind through the high evergreen branches. All of the Knights remembered it differently later, and whatever their description, they knew the song eluded it, for it was shifting and large and ever-changing.
Dumbstruck, Sturm braced himself heavily against the table. The wood shuddered beneath his stiffened hands, and the goblets chimed absurdly as they dropped to the stone floor and shattered. The sweet woodsmoke in the air turned suddenly to a sharp and watery perfume, the odor of spilt wine, then of fresh grapes and strawberries, then the sudden, pungent freshness of leaves. The torches around the tables extinguished, and suddenly, surprisingly, the gr
eat council hall was awash in moonlight, silver and red.
“Great Solin and Luin!” Sturm exclaimed under his breath, exchanging shocked glances with Derek Crownguard.
Then Lord Wilderness appeared in the rafters above them, bristling with music and green sparks.
Sturm had never seen the likes of him. The man’s armor glistened with the waxy, depthless green of holly. Embossed roses, red and green, intertwined on his breastplate, and leaves and scarlet berries cascaded from his gauntlets and greaves, trailing behind him like a rumor of spring in the lifeless midwinter hall. About his face, more leaves flared and clustered like green flame, like a glory of grassy light, at the center of which his wide black eyes darted and glittered and laughed. He was a huge green bird or a dryad’s consort, and again he raised the flute to his lips and again the music burst forth limitless, out of the dusk and cedars and pines. He leapt to the floor with astonishing lightness.
Slowly, their faces stern and forbidding, Lord Alfred, Lord Gunthar, and Lord Stephan rose to their feet, their hands riding lightly on the hilts of their swords. Sir Adamant Jeoffrey and Lord Boniface of Foghaven stepped from behind their tables, moving toward the center of the room, then suddenly stopped, their expressions uncharacteristically cautious. Servants scattered to the far corners of the hall as more crystal broke and silver jangled on the stone floor. The strange, leafy monstrosity ignored the commotion, crouching comically in the center of the hall as the elven minstrel picked up his harp and scrambled away in a flurry of oaths and twanging strings, his coat tangled in holly thorns.
“Who are you?” Lord Alfred asked, his voice thunderous. “How dare you disturb this most solemn of nights?”
The green man pivoted full circle, his flute vanishing somewhere in the jungle of leaf and armor that covered him. Faintly Sturm heard its music echoing up the stairwell, as echo doubled back upon echo until the melody finally traveled beyond his hearing.