Knights of the Rose

Chapter 5

The ambush came when Pirvan was within hours of the principal camp of the Gryphons, not from any hostile clan, but from a band of Gryphons themselves, led by Hawkbrother’s eldest brother, Threehands, first heir to Redthorn.

With a seasoned knight’s detachment, Pirvan had to admit Threehands’s skill and that of the warriors under him. Not even the sharpest-eyed of Hawkbrother’s band had seen a single one of his brother’s fifty until they rose from their hiding places. Threehands himself let fly an arrow that hissed into the sand an arm’s length from Pirvan’s mount, plain warning that the leaders at least would have been dead before they knew they were under attack.

When Threehands rode down to greet his brother, Pirvan was not sure that the attack was not continuing. That the brother was using his tongue as a weapon made it no less an attack.

“As I would have expected of you, Hawk’s Egg,” Threehands snapped. “Guiding Istarians and who knows what else into our sacred and secret lands. How much did they pay you?”

Hawkbrother’s dark skin grew darker with shame, but his voice was level. “Few are of Istar, some are Knights of Solamnia, and none are of any folk with whom we have feud.”

“The knights did Istar’s foul work against the ‘barbarians.’ They cannot be friends.”

“That was long ago.”

“Not long enough for memories to die, among gods or men.”

It was plain that Threehands was accustomed to bullying his youngest brother, and that in the eldest’s presence Hawkbrother often grew tongue-tied. Pirvan cupped both hands and shouted “Hola!” so loudly that his mount pecked and reared until he nearly lost his seat. All heads turned toward him.

“We have come without the power or the wish to do harm to the Gryphons,” Pirvan said sharply. “Yet we meet with insult.

“Moreover, so does our friend among the Gryphons, your own brother. It is not for an outsider to judge or take sides in a family quarrel. But this I say and swear, Hawkbrother has sworn friendship with us after a lawful challenge fight, witnessed by warriors of both sides and by all True Gods.

“Insult him, and you insult us.”

This produced a long silence, a still deeper flush in Hawkbrother, a number of drawn weapons on both sides, and finally a clearing of the throat from Threehands.

“Brother, is this so?”

“You insult Sir Pirvan by doubting it, but I will ignore that. It is so.”

“It was still hardly fair, to set a giant against-”

For one of the few times since Pirvan had known him, Darin threw back his head and roared with laughter. The echoes took some time to die. Until they did, further speech was impossible.

“That is another insult to be ignored for now,” Hawkbrother said. He seemed to be regaining his confidence. Pirvan hoped he would not take too much pleasure in bearding an older brother for whom he clearly felt something less than overwhelming affection.

“Sir Pirvan himself challenged me,” Hawkbrother said. “There were those among his comrades who doubted his wisdom, but he had faith in his own prowess and the favor of the gods. That faith earned him victory.

“And before you let your tongue wag about my losing to a man old enough to be my father, when was the last time you felt fit to challenge he who is father to us both?”

This produced another long silence in the gorge. It also gave Pirvan a strong desire to meet Redthorn. If he was physically the master of both of these hard young warriors, the Gryphon chief would be a fighter worth knowing.

Threehands at last broke the silence by translating the last few speeches for those of his band who did not know the common speech. Then he carefully unstrung his bow, keeping both hands in sight as he did, stepped up on a rock, and waved both hands.

Drawn weapons returned to belts, backs, and sheaths. Hawkbrother’s shoulders slumped in relief. Pirvan commanded himself only by sheer force of will.

“If you are sworn friends to Hawkbrother, then it is fit to bring you before Redthorn and Skytoucher,” Threehands said. “Not all of you, to be sure, and any who seek to flee, play the spy, or violate camp laws will die as peace breakers. But I will not follow in my brother’s footsteps, and treat my father as too old to make a fit decision in grave matters of war and peace.”

Hawkbrother had the self-command to neither flinch, flush, nor reply to this final insult. Instead, he turned his horse and addressed both his band and Pirvan’s.

“See to your horses. We ride for the guest camp at once, and it will not go well with those who fall out.”

Witnesses to the lawful marriage of Krythis and Tulia had stood to speak-several of them, and none of them content merely to swear the appropriate oaths.

It was the same, now, at Rynthala’s coming-of-age celebration. Many stood to swear to the day of Rynthala’s birth, her precocious feats of strength and speech, and everything else that had happened over the last seventeen years to or around her.

In time, Krythis wished to unsling his bow and silence one or two of the more interminable speakers. But it would be the worst of omens on this day, in front of hundreds of witnesses, all of whom wished Rynthala and her parents well almost as much as they wished to empty the tables of food and barrels of drink.

“Almost done,” Tulia whispered, squeezing her husband’s thigh. “Here comes Sirbones.”

The priest of Mishakal looked less like a healer than one in need of healing. But he had looked thus when he came striding out of the mountains some five years ago, and had not suffered a day’s illness since. Meanwhile, scores in the citadel of Belkuthas owed life or health to him, as did literally hundreds, of several races, in the lands about.

“By Mishakal and all gods whose will bears upon health of mind and body, this I swear,” Sirbones said. His voice was high pitched and threadier than it had been, but it still carried. Also, he was one of the few in the citadel who spoke only when he had something worth hearing.

“I swear that Rynthala, daughter of Krythis and Tulia, is hale and hearty, blessed with as much health as any two women of her age could commonly expect, fleet and strong for battle, fit and well to wed if such is her choice, and to bear children if it is the gods’ will.

“This I swear, and in the name of Mishakal and all gods whose will bears upon health of mind and body, I defy anyone who says otherwise.”

Then Sirbones slammed the tip of his staff down on to the ground. A sphere of dazzling blue light enveloped him, sending a powerful blast of wind in all directions. Dust, pebbles, hats, and half-eaten biscuits flew about like leaves in an autumn gale.

The light faded. Krythis stared at his daughter. Tulia gripped him.

It was impossible for Rynthala to have grown a hand’s breadth in the passing of a single spell, yet her new garb made it seem that she had. She wore white trousers of fine silk, tucked into boots of amber-hued leather, stiff enough for walking yet loose enough on top to hold weapons.

Around a waist slender only by comparison to the rest of her was a belt, holding her favorite sword and dagger in a scabbard and sheath worked with silver wire. The belt was set with coral beads, and Krythis would have wagered a barrel of dwarf spirits that the buckle was set with rubies.

Above the waist, Rynthala wore a white silk shirt, with lace at throat, collar, and cuffs, and over it a sleeveless blue tunic, that hung in such a way as to hint of mail within. It also had pouches and pockets for weapons and war gear.

Around her tanned throat, Rynthala wore the silver chain that had been her parents’ gift to her when she was twelve. But instead of one of the other gift medallions, she now wore a plain pewter disk with the buffalo-head sigil of Kiri-Jolith.

Odd gift from a healer, Krythis thought. Then he remembered. Kiri-Jolith was the eldest son of Paladine and Mishakal. One of Mishakal’s priests would well know a warrior when he saw one.

Silence, as Rynthala’s throat worked convulsively from her struggle for words. Then she drew her sword and held it with the hilt uppermost and against the pewter disk.

“By this sword and by Kiri-Jolith, I swear not to shame any here this day.” She tossed the sword, caught it by the hilt, and sheathed it in one flowing motion.

“I will not swear to thank everyone. At least not until I’ve had something to wet my throat.”

“Then let the feasting begin!” Tulia called.

A dwarf standing ready with a mallet swung at a wedge that a kender held against the head of a barrel. The mallet thudded home, and the wedge sank into the wood. The kender pretended he’d been struck and capered around, wailing, until he suddenly flipped head over heels and landed on his “smashed” hands. Laughing, everyone scrambled to be first in the line forming by the barrel.

The united bands were not far on their journey before Pirvan realized his people were being deliberately led hither and yon about the countryside. Whether Threehands’ intent was merely to conceal the true location of the Gryphons’ main camp, or to leave Pirvan’s band lost and helpless in the face of treachery, the knight did not know.

Nor did he care. Darin, Haimya, and two of the men-at-arms who had once been rangers had a nearly magical ability to remember trails and landmarks. All were teaching it to Gerik and Eskaia, who were not backward to learn this useful art.

If Threehands meant treachery, he was merely giving warning rather than weakening his intended prey. He was also going to hear something from his sibling, if Hawkbrother’s expression was any guide. The young warrior’s face grew harsher with each pace into the tangle of hills, ravines, and scrubby trees that seemed to be Threehands’s destination.

They saw what might have been the principal Gryphon camp once, briefly, far off in the hazy heat, at the bottom of a valley. Pirvan did not dare rein in to study the scene more closely, and doubted he would learn much if he could. From this distance, it would be hard to tell if the camp had huts or tents, its own well, cookhouses or cook-fires, and if it could spew forth five hundred warriors or five thousand.

More than the first, much less than the second, was Pirvan’s guess. One clan only among the Free Riders had ever allowed themselves to be accurately counted by outsiders, the Blue Eagles. They could, by arming everyone who could bear a weapon even if he or she could not sit a saddle, put forward about two thousand fighting men and perhaps five hundred women. Not all of these would be useful except to defend camps, which no sane opponent forced Free Riders to do, for then they fought to the death.

But certainly, the Gryphons would have no difficulty swallowing Pirvan’s band so completely that none would know where their bones lay. That they would be avenged was small consolation; vengeance would mean knights consequently allied with Istar, marching against Free Riders, and from there to war with the Silvanesti.

The trail soon took them deeper into the hills, where cliffs and ridges left the riders in shadow much of the time. Above, where the sun touched the rock, it once more glowed orange, crimson, gold, and unnameable colors that the gods splattered in this land when the world was taking form.

The vegetation was also growing thicker, as if there was more water to be found here. Pirvan was not surprised when they reined in beside a pool a good fifty paces wide. Threehands signaled, one of his riders blew on a horn, and all the Free Riders began dismounting.

“From here, only three of you may come with me to face your judgment,” Threehands said.

“By what right-?” Gerik began, before his father, mother, sister, and mentor all glared him to silence.

“By chief right and seer right, for you will meet both my father, Redthorn, and our women of wisdom, Skytoucher,” Threehands said. Gerik remembered his manners enough to bow courteously in thanks.

Pirvan was looking about him, trying to find the shrine, spirit-house, or other planned meeting place, when two of Threehands’ men began pulling on a long rope of oiled leather. The knight’s eyes followed the rope out into the pool, and saw a small hide boat gliding toward them. Behind it was a narrow shelf of rock, and above that shelf the dark mouth of a cave.

With that much settled, Pirvan began considering who should go. Himself, of course, Tarothin, and either Haimya or Darin.

Haimya, he decided. It would be a courtesy to Skytoucher. Also, if there was any need to speak of woman’s mysteries (of which the Free Riders were reported to have many), Haimya would be the only one who could lawfully speak with the wise woman.

Pirvan turned to Haimya, asked with his eyes, and saw assent in hers. When he glanced toward the wizard-he saw a head shaking in firm denial.

The knight’s first urge was to shake Tarothin until the last tooth fell from his gums. Then he saw the Red Robe’s fingers dancing and twisting in complicated movements. To an uninitiated observer, he might have been casting a minor spell, or merely working cramps from his hands.

Pirvan translated as swiftly as if the wizard had been speaking: Threehands does not seem to know I am a magic worker. Easier to surprise him if I stay behind, feigning illness. Also, that cave may be bound to Skytoucher, so that no magic save hers can work within it.

Pirvan’s nod was brusque. He trusted many things about Tarothin, including both his loyalty and his acting ability. He had, after all, once fooled not only the knight and much of his company, but Istarian minions of the kingpriest and even spies of the priesthood of Zeboim, the foul Sea Mistress.

He should not have much trouble deceiving Threehands, who dripped overconfidence as an autumn hive drips honey.

Pirvan looked at his people. Darin was the obvious replacement for Tarothin, but the band needed him as a leader in the event of treachery. Also, his weight might sink the boat.

The knight swallowed. This was a moment that he had known must come, but wished could have come later or under easier circumstances.

“Gerik, you will make the third of our company. Threehands, lead onward.”

And, gods, grant Eskaia the sense to place herself under Darin’s protection if none of us come back, thought Pirvan. Few but he will protect her without demanding marriage.

Krythis did not believe in mixing his drinks. Besides dwarf spirits, there was brandy, mead, ale, and at least three kinds of wine. There was even a keg of something that had appeared so mysteriously that Krythis suspected it was a gift of the gully dwarves.

He had remained true to the ale. Between draining cups of it, he had also eaten heartily of the venison and pork sausages, smoked fish, fried mushrooms, eggs wrapped in bacon, and other solid fare that made tables groan before it was eaten and made the eaters groan afterward.

Krythis saw Tulia moving through the crowd toward him. She passed three kender, who took turns tossing one another off a table in a way that would have shattered the bones of less resilient folk. Now she was out in the open, swaying her hips as she came, in a way she would never have dared if she were wholly sober.

She reached him and leaned against him, and her warmth and Krythis’s desire were suddenly both real. She caressed him, where no one could see her hand, then whispered:

“The centaurs.”

“May their hooves rot.”

Still half entwined, they steered a course for the guest huts. These formed a square, and in the middle of the square two centaurs (the only ones to appear, although the whole family had been invited) were playing tug-of-war with one of the tables.

They had also gathered an enthusiastic audience. This would have made them reluctant to abandon the contest even if they’d been sober.

“Hold!” Krythis called. “You can’t break up the furniture. Guest rights don’t go that far.”

“Who says so?” the smaller centaur replied. His larger rival, a muscular roan with bells tied into his tail, was either less drunk or more sensible. He held up his hand.

“Oh, pardon, Krythis. But we do have to settle this insult before we leave. Peace in the family, and all that, I’m sure you know.”

Krythis had no intention of keeping peace in centaur families at the price of brawls in his own house, but a flat refusal could turn the brawl vicious in moments. Centaurs were as unpredictable as kender, but by the gods’ favor a great deal less numerous.

Then Tulia whispered what to others would have looked like an irresistible intimacy in her husband’s ear. Krythis nodded and grinned.

“My friends. This is a matter of honor, of course, so I will not prevent your settling it. But allow me to offer you a pair of good staves, padded to prevent injury but intended for just such quarrels as this. Moreover, if you will wait while they are brought, I will also see you given a flagon of the best brandy, to refresh yourselves between rounds. And for those who watch, another barrel of ale might be forthcoming, if the dwarves haven’t drunk it all!”

In the midst of the laughter, Tulia slipped away. She would return with servants, staves, and brandy. The brandy, Krythis knew, was from a special cask judiciously enspelled this morning by Sirbones. One drink from it would remove anyone’s willingness to fight. A second would remove the ability. A third would induce a deep sleep, from which the drinker would awaken hungry enough to eat a raw owlbear, but otherwise unharmed.

Tulia did not sway her hips as she departed, but to her watching husband she seemed more desirable than ever, if that was possible. He had been blessed in her, and said so in words and deeds whenever he had a chance, and she returned the compliment.

But had she been as blessed in him as he in her? If she had wed someone else, she might already have celebrated the coming-of-age of two or three healthy children, instead of singing old elven songs of sorrow before the shrines of three who had died young. Oh, Rynthala alone was worth two daughters, or even sons, but sometimes Krythis thought he saw an emptiness, deep within Tulia, visible only to one who knew her and could look into those blue eyes-

“Filth!” A man’s angry shout.

“I’ve no quarrel with-” a woman began. She was not shouting, so Krythis could only just make out the words, but there was something familiar about the voice.

The man’s next three words were even angrier and far harsher than the first.

The woman’s temper snapped. In a voice that carried like a battle cry, she shouted, “You, sir, are the bastard son of a she-ass who would weep with shame to see you lower yourself thus.”

Then what seemed a hundred voices were all shouting at once, few of them politely or sensibly. But Krythis was listening to none of them. He was drawing his sword, more to clear a path through the crowd than for defense, and moving rapidly toward the place where the woman’s voice had sounded.

That had been Rynthala speaking, and when she flayed someone’s hide off with her tongue that way, she was as angry as any mortal could be. Nor did the man she address seem a model of reason and amiability.

I hope Tulia can finish her business before coming to help me, thought Krythis, or that this affray takes the centaurs’ minds off their little argument.