Oath and the Measure

by Michael Williams

  Reza went on for a few minutes more—some involved story about how everyone blamed everyone else for the mishaps in the deer park. He stood back as Sturm climbed into the saddle.

  “There’s more than a few of us, Master Sturm,” the old man said, patting Luin’s flank reassuringly, “that look forward to our own eighty-fifth year and what it brings.”

  “I hope my own is like that of Lord Stephan Peres,” Sturm replied, and he turned Luin’s head toward the gate.

  Sturm was two days traveling back to Solace, passing through the Virkhus Hills and onto the Solamnic Plains, following the same path he had taken two weeks, a season, a lifetime ago. His only company was a growing sense of loss—of something irrecoverable that lingered at the edge of his thoughts like a half-remembered melody.

  Now the Hart’s Forest had meaning to him as he passed south of it. It shimmered green and orderly at the edge of his sight, and for a brief moment, Sturm thought of venturing north, of combing its measured recesses in search of the vanished Lord Stephan.

  He decided against it. Had not Stephan waved the lot of them away, plunging into green thought and green shade with a willing heart?

  To each his own, Sturm thought sourly, but he knew that did not sum it up.

  Down through the plains he rode, keeping the river safely to his east. The double towers of Castle di Caela loomed for a while in a foggy eastern distance, but Sturm had no desire to return there. On he galloped, past Thelgaard Keep and over the border to Southlund, where a day’s ride brought him to Caergoth and the sea. All the while, he waited expectantly for a music that did not return.

  He kept the armor hidden safely away, wrapped in canvas and secrecy, until he was on the Straits of Schallsea. It was as Raistlin had said: The North could eat you alive. Solamnia was dangerous country for Solamnics, more dangerous still for the grim and embattled Order.

  He did not look back as he crossed.

  After he set foot on dry land at the northernmost reach of Abanasinia, the travel was easy, the familiar sights rising like fog or music upon a distant plain. There were the mountains—the rounded Eastwalls and the imposing Kharolis Range behind them—and once he caught sight of a tribe of Plainsmen loping soundlessly on the western horizon, framed by sunset and distance and their dark magic.

  “Home,” he whispered, and he tried to feel something of home: a wistfulness, a burning in the depths of his heart. He felt none of those bookish sentiments. Indeed, he felt nothing at all but a sense of recognition—that these were places he had seen before, and from this point on, he would not be lost on the road.

  Nothing was home, he decided. Not Solamnia. Not here.

  Homecoming did mean pleasant reunions. Sturm rode into Solace to find Caramon busy with hammer and peg in the village square, putting the finishing touches on a curious scaffolding and stage.

  Caramon’s greeting was brisk, enthusiastic. Smarting from the big man’s bear hug, Sturm rubbed his shoulder and examined the handiwork before him.

  “It’s for Raist,” Caramon maintained proudly, seating himself unceremoniously on the grass and reaching for a jug of water. “To raise us some traveling money.”

  The big man winked and rubbed his fingers together in an innocent imitation of a worldly merchant.

  “How exciting,” Sturm said, regarding his old friend soberly. “And where will your travels take you, Caramon?”

  “To the Tower of High Sorcery,” Caramon whispered, beckoning Sturm closer. “In Wayreth Forest. To the first big test of my brother’s magic.”

  “Don’t you … have to be invited, Caramon?”

  “That’s just it, Sturm,” the big man replied. “Raistlin has been invited. He has been tested early and long, and they have found him worthy!”

  Caramon beamed and nodded toward the far end of the green. There, in a dazzle of sunlight, a slight red-robed figure pivoted and murmured, dark birds dancing in his hands and at the hem of his garment.

  Tested and found worthy? Sturm thought as he watched the young mage at practice. Sleight of hand, I suppose, and perhaps an array of mirrors and smokes. It’s not that easy when you venture forth, because the whole green world itself is deceptive and pipes mysteries at you from places beyond your knowing.

  It’s a music that just about killed me. But despite it all, I still have the Measure and the Oath.

  Sturm frowned. The thought did not seem consoling.

  But I could have had other things, had I chosen. There are choices out there, Raistlin. And the best part of magic is that you can choose.

  To the last of this and of anything, you can choose. I hope you will choose honorably.

  Heedless to the arrival of his old friend, the young mage stretched his arms, shivered in the spring wind as a cloud passed over the sun, and climbed the steps of the newly finished scaffold. It looked like party games to Sturm, like a clever child’s magic show, as bottles and birds and blue flames whisked through the air and vanished.

  Soon a crowd began to gather, villagers from Solace, farmers from the outlying countryside, even a dwarf or two and a curious kender, of all things, standing at the back of the crowd, craning to see the events on the scaffold. Somewhere in the milling and murmuring of all these people, where the guttural remarks of the dwarves mingled with the broad accents of country folk and the melodious southern talk of Haven and Tarsis and far-off Zeriak, the faint sound of a flute arose and lingered, sowing the air with promise.

  Epilogue

  Of Remembrances and Inns

  Once more the year turned, and after it another spring, cold and forbidding. And Lord Gunthar Uth Wistan passed through Solace.

  His stay was brief. Sturm’s solitary cottage was a bit cramped and humble for a prominent Solamnic Knight, and there was something in Lord Gunthar that balked at the idea of his good friend’s son having settled beneath a thatched roof, sleeping on a hard dirt floor.

  Gunthar left provisions behind him and enough silver to last the lad comfortably to midsummer. He also left a story, and at his departure, Sturm hastened to the Inn of the Last Home, bearing bread and tidings for his friends.

  Raistlin warmed his hands by the fireside as Sturm entered the room. Caramon loomed at a southern window, looking out at a late light snow that fell on the branches of the enormous vallenwood that housed the rustic old inn.

  It was as though the twins were lost in separate dreams. Raistlin wore a red robe now, in anticipation of his magian tests at the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth. Caramon’s misgivings about the journey ahead of his brother had infected Sturm, too, until the sight of the robes made him uneasy and apprehensive.

  Raistlin turned toward him, smiled faintly, and seated himself at a cluttered table.

  “Something in you speaks of tidings, Sturm Brightblade,” he whispered, clearing away crockery and cutlery with a thin pale hand. “That old urgency and Solamnic importance. Seat yourself.”

  Caramon stayed by the window as Sturm sat and unwrapped the bread. Raistlin ate greedily, feverishly, as Otik moved silently to the table. Sturm handed the innkeeper a coin, and the burly man removed himself to kitchen fires and the teapot.

  “I have brought news, Raistlin,” Sturm announced, frowning at his friend’s incessant hunger. “Lord Gunthar carried the news to me.”

  Caramon turned from the window and shivered.

  “Won’t it ever be warm, Raist? The snow gets into your bones by this time, and it’s like the first of spring is forever in coming.”

  Raistlin waved away his brother’s comments and smiled ironically, his dark eyes fixed on Sturm. “Enough talk of the weather, Caramon. Our friend Sturm Brightblade has news of high intrigues in the Order, brought to him no doubt by his august visitor.”

  Sturm shifted in the chair, his gaze bright and intent. “This is the story they are telling in the High Clerist’s Tower now. Vertumnus returned at the Yuletide, and what that means is that my long banishment is over.”

  Caramon pulled up a chair, and
Sturm began the marvelous, confusing tale.

  “Now this is only one of many versions of that story, mind you. For each man there—Lord Gunthar, Lord Alfred, all of the MarThasals and Jeoffreys and Invernos—remembers it differently now, Lord Gunthar says.”

  “As before they remembered the Yule and his first visit differently,” Caramon prompted.

  Raistlin shot his brother an impatient look. “I remember Sturm’s account of the first visit, Caramon. Unlike the Knights involved, I need no one to refresh my memory.”

  The room fell to an uncomfortable silence. Sturm cleared his throat.

  “Well, be that as it may, none of them remember it quite the same. But on a few things, most of them agree.

  “After I left the High Clerist’s Tower and came back here, Gunthar and Alfred watched Boniface rather closely, to hear Lord Gunthar tell it. The issue was supposed to be over and buried, settled in trial by combat, but neither of the two justices could help but think that there was something … sour and disturbing about Lord Boniface, about how he had challenged and bullied and taunted me from side to side of the council hall. Nonetheless, they were bound by tradition to accept the outcome of the trial, and of course there were other things to attend to, with spring upon them and wider duties for the Order in the Solamnic countryside.”

  “In other words,” Raistlin interrupted dryly, “they forgot about you.”

  “I don’t mean it that way,” Sturm protested, hastily and a little strongly. “It’s just that … that … the Order has other business as well.”

  The dark twin nodded as his gaze shifted back to the fireplace, to a long, half-dozing abstraction.

  Otik bustled out of the kitchen, carrying a tray of steaming crockery. The last of his other guests, a kender and a dwarf Caramon claimed to know, had bundled themselves and waded slowly out the main door of the inn, leaving the common room hushed and virtually empty.

  “By the time late spring passed into early summer,” Sturm continued as Otik set the tea in front of him, “it seemed as if Boniface had forgotten the matter, too. Lord Gunthar said he ate better, he slept later, and eventually he lost entirely that haunted, beset look he had carried with him throughout the previous winter, and he was joking again with the squires, hunting with Adamant Jeoffrey, and even managing a lengthy summer trip west to his holdings in Foghaven.

  “So the controversy was all over, or seemed to be. Even the approach of Yule failed to bother anyone or remind them of past hard feelings, for they were reasonably sure—from Lord Alfred down to the youngest Knight who remembered—that this holiday would be pleasant and quiet, like the Yules of a simpler time before the Green Man’s trespass.

  “Boniface, too, was merry enough as the banquet approached, and downright jubilant when it began, seated amid his regular faction of Crownguards and Jeoffreys, and this year with several highborn Jochanans to boot. The hall was brighter than any remembered, strung with new lanterns and abundant with torches, as though even the link-boys had caught the lightness of spirit. The music, Lord Gunthar said, was better than the year before—a kender trio from farthest Hylo, two penny whistles and a timbrel, frantic and bawdy and as loud as a nest of squirrels.”

  “I’d love to have heard that music!” Caramon exclaimed.

  “Hush!” Raistlin snapped, swatting his brother weakly as Sturm smiled and poured the tea.

  “Boniface was jubilant, they say, informally propping his booted feet against a long oaken table as if he was at hunt or in the field, not at some formal banquet. Holding court, he was, in the midst of the younger Knights, talking swordsmanship and armor and horses, toasting the hunt and the birth of someone’s son … a Jochanan, if I recall.”

  “I am rapt for the particulars,” Raistlin observed ironically. “Go on with the real story, Sturm.”

  Sturm sipped the tea. It tasted of apple and faint cinnamon—a winter tea, no doubt the last of Otik’s stock. “As the wine poured,” he said, “the talk grew louder and louder, rising over the kender hornpipes until it distracted Lord Gunthar, and believe me, he is not iron when it comes to manners and protocol.”

  Caramon nodded dimly. Raistlin coughed and lifted the cup in front of him.

  “Gunthar said that the young Knights ignored him,” Sturm continued, “and that they were only louder and more fierce as the banquet went on. The bluster turned to shouting and jostling, and Lord Gunthar said that it was hard to imagine Boniface in the midst of such horseplay. He said that it was as if something had changed in him, that even his celebrations were … desperate. Boniface threatened the sword at the slightest disagreement and called all to task for their lapses in protocol, citing volume and paragraph of the Measure.”

  “In short, he was typically Solamnic,” Raistlin commented, sipping again from his tea.

  Sturm ignored his companion. “It was as though Boniface had … had clutched the Oath so tightly that he had lost it. Or so Lord Gunthar said. All of a sudden, he heard a flute amid the laughter and penny whistles.”

  “At last!” Raistlin breathed, setting down the cup. “You have a long way in getting to the point of the story, Sturm.”

  Sturm ignored him. “The farthest tables fell into silence as the sound of the flute joined with the penny whistles. The new sound delighted the kender musicians, and they began to improvise upon the melody until the sound of the whistles merged with the sound of the flute, and it was hard to tell who was playing what.

  “Gunthar looked up, he said, and a thousand roses tumbled from the rafters. Pink and white and red and lavender, they showered the Knights and ladies with a hundred thousand petals. The kender musicians whooped with delight and tossed their instruments into the air, and the flute continued on its own, a solo in the midst of the raining roses.”

  “Go on,” Raistlin urged intently.

  Sturm smiled. It was the part of the story he liked the best. “There’s not much further to go, my friend. It was then that the doors of the hall burst open. Lord Vertumnus had arrived, at the head of an army.

  “Doves flew in front of him, and owls and larks and ravens, scattering to the rafters and singing as they scattered. Squirrels and hares followed them, and foxes stalked in behind them, strutting among the tables like sharp-eared hunting dogs.

  “Well, the kender were ecstatic by now, their dances more brisk and disruptive, overflowing onto tables and onto the dais. Gunthar said it became too much for Adamant Jeoffrey, who grabbed two of the little folk by their topknots and held them still.”

  “There’s one I’d like to do the same to,” Caramon muttered ominously, looking over his shoulder at the door of the common room. “And I’d like to sling him around while I was at it.”

  “A dozen elk followed,” Sturm said, “and two dozen deer after them. The creatures entered silently, and Derek Crownguard was startled out of ten years by an enormous dark-eyed buck, its long, serious face crowned with a wide rack of antlers, who crept up behind him and nuzzled him.”

  Sturm laughed at the image. The prospect of Derek Crownguard backing up into yet another surprise amused him no end. Lord Gunthar had told and retold that particular scene, to his young friend’s continual delight.

  “Then the music arrived,” Sturm said when he recovered, “in the wake of the deer and the elk. Three centaurs cantered into the hall, capsizing table and chair and the family banners. Each of the huge creatures played the nillean pipes, and on the back of each rode a green-robed female. Gunthar says it was a human druidess and two dryads, all playing hand drums. I suppose you know who they are from the story I have told you.

  “Last of all came the great bear, the grizzly, striding all confident and free right into the midst of the Order. And Lord Wilderness sat atop the broad shoulders and back of the bear, his flute raised and glittering, playing and playing at a new song.…”

  Caramon stood up, his impatience rising with him. “This is all well and good, Sturm, all this stuff about processionals and music. But what about the Knight?
What about that villain Boniface? I can’t stand a story where he doesn’t get what’s coming to him.”

  “That is next, Caramon,” Sturm replied. “Boniface rose from the table, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. Gunthar and Alfred stepped down from the dais.

  “Vertumnus slid from the back of the bear, and again he pivoted in a full circle, his flute vanishing again somewhere in the leaves that covered him. Centaurs set aside their pipes, the druidess and dryads their hand drums, and the music drifted from the room.”

  “ ‘I am Vertumnus,’ he announced, his voice as always mild and low. ‘And again in the turning seasons, I wish to make a point near and dear to my heart. And to rehearse the legends of druids.’ ”

  “I know of no druidic legends,” Caramon declared.

  Sturm shrugged. “Neither do I. And neither, it seemed, did Lord Gunthar. He looked around at his cohorts—at Alfred and Boniface and the squadron of Jeoffreys and Jochanans, and he saw the same blank look on each face.

  “ ‘Very well,’ Lord Gunthar said. ‘Rehearse your legends, Vertumnus.’ He laughed about it when he told me. He said that he strutted and blustered as if he could have stopped Vertumnus from saying or doing anything he wished, but I suppose that’s all the Measure is sometimes—saying we can control something because we don’t want to look at its depths, its prospects.…”

  “Enough philosophy,” Raistlin declared. “It doesn’t become you.”

  Sturm continued, his eyes on the fire. “ ‘It is a simple legend, Lord Gunthar Uth Wistan,’ the Green Man announced, ‘one brought to me by the Lady Hollis.’

  “Then Hollis, or Ragnell, or whatever name she really goes by, dismounted from the centaur.

  “They’ve a puzzle about the lady, you know,” Sturm said, his gaze lost in the depths of the glowing coals. “Some saw a hideous hag descend from the centaur’s back; others saw a young and beautiful woman, her dark hair crowned with ivy. Some—very few—saw no druidess at all.”