Measure and the Truth

by Doug Niles

  She shrugged. “What I think doesn’t matter. Your intent doesn’t matter. What matters is that a good man, a Solamnic patriot, was slain when he went to you under a flag of truce.”

  “Your father’s death was beside the point. The world must learn the price of defying the nation of Solamnia. That’s why this whole campaign occurred.” He gestured to the piles of rubble where the towers had fallen. “It is why that needed to be done.”

  Her eyes suddenly filled with tears, and she turned away from him. He grimaced, annoyed, impatient. “Do you need any assistance making funeral arrangements?”

  “I can take care of things myself,” she replied coldly. “Very well. I’m detaching my engineering companies, leaving them here under your command. They’ll rebuild the walls, where they were damaged by the falling towers. The fortress will be restored, intact, and once again you will able to defend against external enemies.”

  “It is not external enemies who did this!” Marrinys cried. “It is my own liege—my emperor!”

  He flushed, clenching his jaw. Something in his eyes caused her to blanch, and she backed up a half a step. But still she was unafraid.

  “And the towers?” she asked. “Will your engineers help to rebuild them as well?”

  “That will be up to you.” There was no point in talking to her any longer. “Good day!”

  He spun on his heel, and as he walked away, he glanced at the scene in the crowded courtyard. Burly troops were helping to move the chunks of rubble out of the way. One of his engineers had backed a wagon with a block and tackle mounted on the bed up to a swath of ruined stone. Officers were issuing orders.

  Another wagon rolled in with the priest of Kiri-Jolith, the cleric who had accompanied Lord Kerrigan to the parley, sitting in the front. The priest dismounted and beckoned to some men from the castle guard. They started to remove a litter from the back, which bore the body of the slain nobleman. Jaymes watched impassively as they bore the dead man into the keep, entering a side door, since the main entrance had been devastated by an artillery ball.

  Looking around, the emperor saw General Dayr waiting at the gatehouse. The emperor walked over to his army commander.

  “I want you to take a message to Dram Feldspar, at New Compound,” Jaymes said.

  “Of course, my lord.”

  “I want him to begin work on a dozen new bombards. He’s authorized to negotiate payment with the mountain dwarves for as much steel as they can give him. Also, I want to increase the next commission of black powder to a hundred kegs, as well as a thousand balls of ammunition. Dram is authorized to contract to the hill dwarves for sulfur and saltpeter. The new order is effective immediately.”

  Eyeing Dayr, Jaymes continued, “I don’t want there to be any misunderstanding about these orders. I will need the bombards as soon as he can finish constructing them—certainly at least two of them can be done before the end of summer. And I will take delivery of the powder and balls in small batches, as they become available.”

  “Certainly, my lord.” Dayr said, looking away then turning back to Jaymes. “May I ask if there’s a reason you’re worried about a misunderstanding? Might the dwarf be reluctant to follow your orders?”

  “No, of course not. But I trust you to see that Dram receives the order and carries it out.”

  “Of course. And your orders for the Crown Army? Shall I hold them in place here?”

  “No. Take your army back to Thelgaard; you can expect to stand down for the rest of the year unless something untoward happens. But keep the garrisons sharp.”

  “Yes, sir. Naturally. Are you taking the legion back over the pass to Palanthas?”

  “No. I’m putting them into permanent camp a few miles up the river from here. Vingaard will not be given a chance to forget about them. I intend to have General Weaver practice the legion in open field maneuvers on the plains since there’s a lot more room here than there is beside the city and the bay.”

  “Of course, Excellency,” Dayr said, saluting crisply.

  Those dispositions made, Jaymes turned at last to his horse. He would ride with the full company of Freemen, a hundred strong; they would escort the wagon containing the tax payment. Palanthas was seven days away, a journey that would take him over the pass in the Vingaard Range, and past the High Clerist’s Tower.

  Those mountains were etched along the western horizon, jagged and imposing, with a crest marked by numerous glaciers and snowfields. Some of those peaks were dazzling and white, while others were gray and ominous, shaded by the thick clouds of a massive thunderstorm.

  He suddenly missed his wife very much. Jaymes wished he were back home already. He had little spirit for the long ride over the mountainous terrain.

  But it was time to get started.

  Blayne Kerrigan pulled his oilskin cloak over his head, leaning forward against the neck of his horse in a desperate attempt to block out the torrential rain. He couldn’t see the trail—such as it was—before his nose, so he clung blindly to the saddle. His horse forged ahead, shrugging off the water, shivering against the cold. It was a brave and steady animal and showed its true heart, heading resolutely into the savage weather.

  But the mount was as weary as the rider. They had traveled hard through the night, entering the mountains not long after dawn, following a hunting trail Blayne remembered from earlier trips. The trail ran along the bed of a ravine and climbed steeply upward for many miles.

  After the all-night ride, the storm had broken on them about noon, and for the rest of that day, they pressed through a steady rain that occasionally, as at that moment, became a lashing downpour. Because of the steep walls rising to right and left, it was practically impossible to get lost, even with the almost complete lack of visibility, so they simply continued blindly, stolidly onward, past a stream spilling down a rock-filled channel in the middle of the ravine.

  Blayne had nervously watched the water level increase during the course of the rainy afternoon. In places where the ravine walls closed in, there was no dry land between the intermittent streams and the rock wall, and at times the horse surged through water up to its knees, driving forward until the passage widened and it could again scramble up onto what passed for dry land.

  They were hampered by visibility and fatigue and couldn’t maintain their pace after dark. Blayne looked around for a place to stop for the night. But the ground was steeply sloping there and everywhere was exposed to harsh elements. He remembered the presence of a rocky overhang, which would provide minimal shelter, a mile or two farther on, and he resolved to keep going. How different it was from the last time he was on that path. Then he had been on a carefree hunting adventure; at that moment he was fleeing for his life.

  It was his father who had first brought him to those mountains. There, Blayne had learned to shoot a bow and arrow. The deadfalls of the forests had burned in their campfires, and Lord Kerrigan had regaled his only son with tales of Vingaard Keep, of the heroes of the past, the War of the Lance, and the battles against minions of evil. Always that great keep had awaited their return, secure on the plains, master of the great, placid river.

  His thoughts wandered until a surge of white water, swollen by the heavy rain, rushed around a corner of the ravine before him. The sudden deluge overflowed the banks, and a wave higher than his head came at him so fast that he had bare seconds to react. The horse reared in terror, hooves flailing, and Blayne slid from the saddle.

  Landing on his feet, he sprang toward the ravine wall, scrambling desperately. His fingers clutched a gnarl of roots, his boots pounded and kicked, pushing up on rock edges. The water struck him with impossible force, and he was slammed sideways, hearing frantic whinnies as the flood swept his steadfast horse away.

  But a thick root dangled just above him, and he seized it with one hand, then both. It was solidly anchored. He clung to the root as the water tugged at his legs, hungrily seeking to bear him away. Gradually he felt the strength of the torrent wane, the water re
ceding until it dropped to his waist then slowly down the length of his legs. Only then did he try to move, desperately hauling himself up from the water onto the steep side of the ravine.

  His horse was gone, surely dead. He had no food, no home, very little hope. How long he stayed there, he had no idea, but when he awoke, he was surrounded by pitch darkness and frozen to the bone.

  Selinda materialized within her rooms, exhausted and disheartened and full of fear. Those emotions were exacerbated when she saw the outer door to her chambers was open, and several of the emperor’s men-at-arms were searching through the place. One had a wardrobe open and was pawing through her dresses, ignoring the fabulous raiment in a desperate rummaging for … something. Another was on his knees, peering under her bed.

  In a flash she realized they had discovered her absence.

  “What in the name of the Oath and Measure do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, forcing into her voice every ounce of authority she could muster.

  “My lady!” cried the kneeling guard. “Thank Kiri-Jolith you’re safe!”

  “Why shouldn’t I be safe?” she demanded. “Safe, that is, except from the presence of rude men who burst into my chambers without an invitation. I repeat, what are you doing?”

  The guard in the wardrobe had withdrawn with as much dignity as he could demonstrate, closing the door behind himself and bowing to Selinda. “Begging your ladyship’s pardon, but we came through the door when you didn’t respond to our knocks—over the span of hours, of course! And when we came in, we didn’t see you—”

  He blinked and scratched his head. “That is, where were you, my lady?”

  “I should think the wife of the emperor is entitled to a few moments of privacy,” she said icily. “It is not necessary that you know everything about my room! Now, leave me, please. At once!”

  The two men exchanged glances but wasted no time in retreating, whispering to their companions in the outer hall and bowing and scraping as they pulled the door shut behind themselves.

  Only then did Selinda allow herself to breathe easier. Realizing she was trembling, that her knees seemed on the verge of buckling, she dropped into a chair and tried to collect herself.

  Collect herself for what? The question rose up and challenged her almost as soon as her breathing returned to normal.

  What in the world was she going to do?

  Jaymes drove the Freemen hard, riding past dark every night, rising before dawn and returning to the mountain road early each morning. His thoughts were focused on his wife: she would understand what had transpired; she would see the reason he had needed to show his mastery of the nation! He didn’t stop to think about the matter rationally but just rode forward, thinking of Selinda and of the miracle of the child growing within her.

  Anxious to keep moving, the column rode right past the High Clerist’s Tower, without the emperor even thinking to stop and pay his respects to General Markus. That garrison commander watched from the High Lookout in some amazement as his lord and the escort of his loyal riders passed the crest of the pass and started on the long, downhill course to the great city by the sea.

  So hard and fast did they ride that on the afternoon of the fifth day, Palanthas was in their sights. Only as they drew close to the city gate did the emperor allow the column to slow. He was, after all, returning from a victorious campaign, and he would enter his capital with all the pomp and ceremony his station warranted.

  So he slowed the procession to a proper march, and he and his men smartly returned the salutes offered by the guards at the gates. Still, it was all he could do to hold back his horse, to refrain from galloping to his palace on the great square, from bounding up the steps, racing up the stairway to the room where she was waiting for him. He felt a sudden flush of regret at locking his wife up in her rooms. He would apologize and explain; she would understand!

  Riding through the city gate, he threw back his cloak and sat astride his saddle with his head held high. He glanced up at the tower of his palace, rising into view from barely a mile away.

  He took scant notice of the citizens of his city, although the Freemen muttered among themselves that there seemed to be an unusually small and unenthusiastic turnout for the emperor’s return. The great leader had eyes only for his palace, and when at last he rode through the gates, Jaymes dismounted quickly, strode through the front doors, and started across the hall.

  It was there that he was met by his old sergeant Samuel, a garrison commander who had experienced all that the Age of Mortals had delivered unto Krynn. Something in the grizzled veteran’s eyes gave the emperor pause, and he halted.

  “What is it, Sam?” he asked, fighting to remain calm. “Is my wife unwell?”

  “Er, no, Excellency. She seems fine. It’s just that … well …”

  The old soldier was uncharacteristically hesitant, and Jaymes had no patience for delay. “What is it? Spit it out, man!”

  “Well, it happened about six days ago. We went to check on her, as we did nice and regular, just like you ordered.”

  “Was it the baby? Is something wrong?”

  “No, well, I don’t know. You see, she was gone when we looked in on her. And then she came back—just like magic, my lord.”

  Selinda watched Jaymes lead the Freemen back into the city. The emperor’s column of a hundred knights came down the road from the High Clerist’s Pass. They were trailed by a heavy wagon, and palace heralds shouted the news that the carriage bore the overdue taxes owned by Vingaard Keep to the national treasury.

  Selinda noticed that the crowds of Palanthians—usually festive on such occasions—seemed to avoid the heralds. There were very few people lining the streets as Jaymes made his way to the palace, and those who were out seemed to be watching in sullen silence. The attack on Vingaard had certainly not been popular with the people of Palanthas.

  Indifferent to his people, the emperor sat astride his horse, looking neither right nor left, Selinda noted. He accepted the effusive praise of the palace garrison with a casual salute as he rode through the gate. Stablemen vied to take his horse, but he ignored them as he entered the keep, vanishing from her sight.

  Not long after, he was knocking forcefully at her door.

  “Enter,” she replied.

  He came in, looking to her eyes like a stranger, though he was still the same man. Jaymes Markham … an outlaw when first she met him … then general and ultimately lord marshal of a great army … and finally the emperor of Solamnia. A long, long time ago, it seemed, she had agreed to become his wife. The reasons for doing so seemed compelling at the time, since then they were vague and indistinct.

  No, she did not love him. And yes, she feared him.

  “Hello,” he said. She was aware he was scrutinizing her. His narrowed eyes were dark above the neat beard. She noted more gray along his temples, and in that beard, than she remembered. Had he really changed that much in a fortnight? She watched him closely, saying nothing. She had nothing to say and felt at a loss for words.

  “The guards tell me you gave them quite a start.”

  “How so?” she asked, feeling a jolt of terror.

  “They thought you were in danger, had fallen or suffered some stroke in your sleep. But when they broke in here, after hours of trying to rouse you, you were nowhere to be seen, according to their report.”

  “I was …” She faltered. The lie that had diverted the guards would no longer suffice. “I was gone. I traveled to Vingaard. I wanted … I wanted to see firsthand the way you would rule your new, proud nation.”

  “Magic?” He frowned then glared. “You teleported! How?”

  She didn’t answer but unconsciously placed her left hand over her right, concealing the ring. The quick movement did not pass unnoticed.

  “So you have a magic ring,” he declared haughtily. “Don’t you understand the dangers—to yourself? To our child?”

  “I felt perfectly safe.”

  “I can’t allow you to ris
k yourself and the baby like this.” He took a step closer. He didn’t appear so much angry as concerned. Holding out his hand, he spoke again, more gently but still firmly. “You can’t do this again; I won’t allow it. Give me the ring.”

  “No!” The word exploded from her lips, but Selinda didn’t regret blurting it out. She felt a wave of relief, the first excitement of honesty. She took a step backward, watching him warily.

  “Don’t refuse me!” he snapped, his anger starting to flare. “I’ll simply take it from you if I must.”

  “No, you won’t do that, either,” Selinda said. She stood at her full height, chin raised. Her fingers touched the little circlet of silver, ready to give it a twist, to activate the magic. “If you try, I promise by all the gods that I will use the ring to go away from here and never return.”

  “To where?” he asked, appearing—for the first time ever, in Selinda’s experience—to be stunned.

  “I won’t tell you. But I will tell you this: I will not be locked up in this tower, not by you, nor by all the troops in your army.”

  He stood staring at her, mute, for what seemed like a long time. Finally he turned and stalked to the door. “This is not the end of this,” he said before marching from the room.

  Jaymes was wrapped in a cold fury as he rode out of the Old City, lashing his horse into a gallop, scattering pedestrians out of his path. The steed galloped up Nobles Hill and clattered onto the paved road leading to his destination.

  The great manor house was owned by Jenna, Mistress of the Red Robes. The powerful crimson-garbed wizard had been declared head of the Orders of Magic at the momentous Conclave that convened after the gods of magic returned to Krynn. Coryn had helped Jenna attain that vaulted station against the ambitions of Dalamar the Dark, and in gratitude—and genuine friendship—Jenna had offered Coryn stewardship of her magnificent house.