“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 Steel.
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 eyes that were red-rimmed with tears. “You are Steel. Steel Brightblade. Son of Sturm—” His voice broke again as he spoke the name that was the same as his brother’s.
Steel 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?”
Steel cast the woman an exasperated glance. The knight had great respect for the Nightlords and their work. Unlike the Knights of Solamnia, who scorned 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 occasional friction between the two groups, though Lord Ariakan tried his best to eliminate it. The practical soldier, who saw straight from point A to point B and nothing else, could not hope to understand the wizard, who saw not only A and B but all the shifting planes of existence 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. These three surely would have met at some time. Steel was thankful for one thing: 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 Steel in amazement; Palin stared at him in stupefaction. The Nightlord muttered, 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 in 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 hand. “To deliver bodies … No, you are too good a soldier to risk losing, 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 …” Steel’s face remained impassive, expressionless, his tone matter-of-fact. “Caramon Majere battled at my side 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’s. Each knight at his investiture is given the Vision, shown how his single thread is 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 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. Steel 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 Steel’s commander, however, and could have no say in the matter of his going or coming. The White Robe was her prisoner, however, and she did have the right to decide what to do with him.
She pondered the matter, apparently torn 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 Steel 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 cannot 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.” Lillith 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 invocation of the Vision took precedence over everything, however. She had to remain silent until he was 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 Steel 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 thing we will accept in ransom for Palin Majere.” She paused, dramatically.
“And what is that, Madam?” Trevalin demanded, impatient to get on with his duties.
“We want the wizards to open the Portal to the Abyss,” said the Nightlord.
“But … that’s impossible!” Palin cried.
“The decision is not yours, young man,” the Nightlord replied coolly. “You are under the jurisdiction of the Wizards’ Conclave. They must decide. Opening the Portal is not like handing over the Staff of Magius. Such a decision belongs to the Conclave.”
Palin shook his head. “What you ask for will not—cannot—be granted. It is impossible. You might as well take my life now. I could not,” he added softly, his hand resting on the shoulder of his dead brother, “die in better company.”
“Judgment has been passed, White Robe. You are our prisoner and must submit yourself to our will.” Trevalin was firm. “You will travel, in the company of Knight Brightblade, to the Tower of Wayreth, there to make your ransom known to the Wizards’ Conclave. If they refuse, your life is forfeit. You will be brought back to us to die.”
Palin shrugged, said nothing, not caring one way or the other.
“You, Steel Brightblade, accept responsibility for the prisoner. If he escapes, you take his parole upon yourself. Your life will be required in payment. You will be sentenced to die in his place.”
“I understand, Subcommander,” said Steel. “And I accept the penalty.”
“You have a fortnight to complete your journey. On the first night that the red and silver moons are both in the sky, you must report to me, your commander, no matter whether you have succeeded or failed. If your prisoner escapes, you must report to me at once, without delay.”
Steel saluted, then left to saddle his blue dragon. Trevalin returned—thankfully—to his duties and ordered a squire to prepare the two corpses for transport. The bodies of the other knights were loaded onto a cart, to be conveyed to the tomb. Palin stayed close to his brothers, doing what he could to clean the bodies, wash off the blood, shut the clouded, staring eyes.
Lillith remained near Palin, watched him closely, intently. She was not afraid he would escape. She was searching, rather, for some clue. Why had this young mage—of all the young mages in the world—been sent here, to fight in this battle? Why had he been the only person to survive? And, most importantly, why had Palin Majere been brought into contact with his cousin, Steel Brightblade?
She conjured up the image of the two of them, walking together, talking together. She saw no immediate family resemblance. In fact, the two could not have been—on first glance—more dissimilar. Steel Brightblade was tall, muscular, well built. Long, dark, curling hair framed a face that was strong and well proportioned, the eyes dark, large, and intense. He was undeniably a handsome man. But though many women looked at Steel Brightblade with admiration once, they tended not to look again. He was comely, certainly, but all attraction ended there. It was obvious to everyone that he belonged, heart and soul, to a stern mistress: War.
War alone could satisfy his lusts, his desires. His cold, proud, haughty mien came alive only during the charge, the fight. The clash of arms was the music he adored, the song of challenge the only love song he would ever sing.
By contrast, his cousin, Palin Majere, was slight of build, with auburn hair and a fair complexion. Fine-boned, with penetrating, intelligent eyes, he reminded the Nightlord immediately of his uncle. She had once seen Raistlin Majere, and she had recognized his nephew the moment she had come in contact with him. It was the hands, she thought. He has his uncle’s delicate, deft touch.
Cousins, the same blood running in each. Yes, the resemblance was there, in the soul, if not the body. Steel knew his strength. Palin had yet to discover his. But it was in him as it had been within his uncle. How to turn it to Her Dark Majesty’s advantage? For surely there had to be some reason the two had been brought together!
Not coincidence. No, a great Plan was at work here, but as yet the Nightlord could not unravel it. The answer would come. Of that, she had no doubt. She had merely to be patient. And so she watched and she waited.
Palin—either thinking he was alone or not caring—began to talk to his brothers.
“It was my fault, Tanin,” he said softly, through a voice husky with tears. “My fault you died. I know you will forgive me. You always forgive me, no matter what I do. But how can I forgive myself? If I had been stronger in my magic, had studied harder, learned more spells … If I hadn’t frozen in fear, forgot all I knew, I would not have failed you at the end. If I had been more like my uncle …”
More like my uncle!
Lillith heard those words. A shiver of awe and excitement raised the flesh on her arms. She saw the Plan. Her Dark Majesty’s thoughts were made clear to her, or at least as clear as they can ever be to a mortal mind. It had to be! This had to be the reason. The two men—one in his doubt and insecurity, the other in his haughty pride—would be each other’s downfall.
The Nightlord did not trust Steel Brightblade. She had never trusted him, not since she had discovered his parentage. She had argued long against his admittance into the elite ranks of the Knights of Takhisis. The omens were bad; the seeing stones prophesied doom.
A white stone on the left—that was the father, Sturm Brightblade, renowned and revered Solamnic Knight, honored even by his enemies for his courageous sacrifice. A black stone to the right—that was the mother, Kitiara uth Matar, leader of one of the dragonarmies, renowned for her skill and fearlessness in battle. Both were dead, but—the Nightlord could sense—both were reaching out to the son who had been brought into the world by accident, not design.
Though seemingly calm and steadfast in his loyalty and devotion to the Dark Queen, Steel Brightblade must be a raging sea of turmoil within. At least, so the Nightlord speculated. And she had good reason. Steel Brightblade wore the sword of a Knight of Solamnia—his father’s sword. And he also wore (though this was a well-guarded secret) a jewel of elven make. Known as a starjewel, it was nothing more than a token exchanged between lovers. It had been given to Sturm Brightblade during the War of the Lance by Alhana Starbreeze, Queen of the Silvanesti elves. And Sturm Brightblade—or rather the corpse of Sturm Brightblade, if you believed Steel’s account—had given the jewel to his son.
A white stone to the left, a black stone to the right, and in the center a stone marked with a fortress. Falling on top of the fortress, a stone marked with fire. Thus Lillith read the signs: the young man was torn in two and this inner conflict would result in disaster. What else could a fortress being devoured by flames represent?
The Nightlord had argued long and hard, but no one had listened. Even the Lord of the Skull, a powerful priestess—an old, old woman who was said to be a favorite with Queen Takhisis—had recommended that Steel be admitted into the knighthood.
“Yes, he wears the starjewel,” the old crone had mumbled through her toothless mouth. “The jewel is the only crack in his iron facade. We will use it to see into his heart, and from that vantage we will see into the hearts of our enemies!”
Blathering old fool.
But now the Nightlord understood. She threw the idea on the black cloth of her mind, much as she tossed her seeing stones. It fell to the table clean, did not roll or tumble, landed right side up. Pondering, choosing her words with care, she approached the young mage.
“You spoke of your uncle,” she said, standing over Palin, staring down at him, her arms folded across her chest. “You never met him, did you? Of course not. You are too young.”
Palin said nothing, gripped the Staff of Magius a bit tighter. The young man had done what he could for his brothers. Now all that remained would be the bitter task of taking them home, of breaking the news to his father and his mother. He was weak and vulnerable now. The Nightlord’s task was almost too easy.
“Raistlin left this world before you were born
.”
Palin glanced up and, in that flashing glance, revealed everything, though he continued to say nothing.
“Left the world. Chose to remain in the Abyss, where he is tormented daily by our dread queen.”
“No.” Palin was stung into speaking. “No, that is not true. For his sacrifice, my uncle was granted peace in sleep. My father was given this knowledge by Paladine.”
Lillith knelt down, to come level with the young man. She moved closer to him. She was an attractive woman and, when she chose, could be charming, as fascinating as a snake.
“So your father says. So he would say, wouldn’t he?”
She felt the young man stir restlessly beside her and she thrilled, deep within. He did not look at her, but she felt his doubt. He’d thought about this before. He believed his father—yet part of him didn’t. That doubt was the crack in his armor. Through that crack, she slid her poisoned mental blade.
“What if your father is wrong? What if Raistlin Majere lives?” She sidled closer still. “He calls to you, doesn’t he?”
It was a guess, but the Nightlord knew immediately she was right. Palin flinched, lowered his eyes.
“If Raistlin was back in this world, he would take you on as his apprentice. You would study with the greatest mage who ever walked this plane of existence. Your uncle has already given you a precious gift. What more would he not do for a loved nephew?”
Palin glanced at her, nothing more than a glance, but she saw the fire kindle deep in his eyes, and she knew it would consume him.
Satisfied, the Nightlord rose, walked away. She could leave the prisoner now. He was safe—safely entangled in the coils of temptation. And he would, inadvertently, draw his cousin in with him. That was the reason the Dark Queen had brought the two together.
Lillith thrust her hand into a black velvet bag, grabbed a handful of stones at random. Muttering the incantation, she tossed the stones on the ground. The Nightlord shuddered.
What she had surmised was correct. Takhisis must have both souls—and quickly.
Dragons of Summer Flame Page 9