Knights of the Rose

Chapter 6

The mouth of the cave led at first only to a dark, minding passage, fitfully illuminated by torches in brazen holders of ancient elven work. The torches shed their light in several colors-yellow and red … and a green that made everyone look like something long dead and dragged from a swamp.

It made even Haimya ugly, a thing Pirvan would have sworn neither years nor gods could accomplish.

The dim light and the sinuous bends in the passage made Gerik uneasy. He walked with eyes wide, mouth trying not to gape, and a hand so near his sword that Pirvan watched him closely. The two Free Rider brothers were not watching their backs at all, which to Pirvan seemed either a grand gesture of trust or a sign that the passage was proof against treachery.

Eventually the passage stopped winding and became a series of short, straight tunnels, each at a nearly right angle to the one before. The course bent toward the left, so that attackers advancing would have their sword arms cramped against the wall. Pirvan knew the principles from spiral staircases in castle towers, but had not expected to find it here.

Nor had he expected to find any stone workings of such size among the desert dwellers. This underground meeting place had to be wrought by magic, or vastly ancient, from days when there were more people in this land.… Most probably, it was both.

It also had to have a quicker way to the sunlight, if the place were used often. With hand signals, Pirvan warned both wife and son to be alert for signs of that quicker way. It might be useful, if they came to need a quick retreat.

Haimya and Gerik had just acknowledged the signals when the last passage ended and they stepped out into the cave itself. It was hard to judge its size, for it seemed tall rather than broad, the far wall clearly visible, the roof lost in shadows. More torches burned in holders on the far wall, which was as much carved stone and sun-dried brick as natural rock.

From that natural rock, however, the ancient masons had carved two chairs, each large enough to comfortably seat two men the size of Darin. The chairs were elaborately decorated with carvings of flowers and trees that, to Pirvan’s knowledge, had not grown in this land in living memory.

Pirvan did not need to ask who occupied the two chairs. The man was plainly of the same blood as Threehands and Hawkbrother, and the woman had the air of one who can see into past and future, body and soul, and anywhere else she wishes-and against whom resistance was folly, crime, and waste.

In some magic workers, this was a pose that did not survive a serious challenge. Pirvan doubted that was the case with Skytoucher.

“Welcome, visitors to the home of the Gryphons,” Redthorn said. His voice was higher pitched than one might have expected from a man his size, but it carried well. He was also tall and stout-thewed enough to be a match for his sons, if he had remained fit and healthy.

“Greetings, chief and wise woman of the Gryphons,” Pirvan said. “We have come-”

“It shall be decided how,” Skytoucher said. “Speak, sons of Redthorn. It is our wish to know how you met these visitors.”

Storytelling was an honored art among the Free Riders, so Pirvan had heard. Certainly both of the chief’s sons told of their journeys as quickly and thoroughly as trained scouts reporting to their captain. Nothing in either story seemed to move Redthorn or Skytoucher, but Pirvan would have wagered his second-best sword that this was a pose.

Another of those lengthy silences followed the sons’ narrative. About the time Pirvan had begun to suspect he would be a grandfather before the two Gryphon leaders replied, Redthorn nodded to Skytoucher.

“From these words we have heard, it seems you are strangers but not, perhaps, enemies.”

“They cannot be-” Hawkbrother began, to be promptly silenced by a cough from his father.

“They may well not be,” Skytoucher chided. “Yet they have a wizard in their company, of which neither you nor they have spoken. What else might they be concealing? How might that wizard have wrought your memories, to make that concealment perfect?”

“I do not lie!” Threehands snapped.

“Nor did I so accuse you,” Skytoucher said. She sounded even more chiding of the elder brother than of the younger, which gave Pirvan some hope.

That hope died in the next moment. Skytoucher frowned. “There is only one trail we can follow to the end. You must open your mind and heart to me, Sir Pirvan. Let nothing be concealed any longer, and we shall know the truth behind your presence here.”

But also, he thought, far too many secrets of the Knights of Solamnia, which honor, Oath, Measure, and good sense alike commanded him to keep.

It did not matter whether the Gryphons were friend or foe, now or ever. Skytoucher was asking Pirvan casually to relinquish secrets that knights had died by torture or their own hands rather than yield.

This may not be treachery, Pirvan considered, but one wonders if it will make much difference, after we are dead.

Pirvan shook his head. “My Oath as a Knight of-”

“The knights had taken many oaths, like you, but it was the ones to Istar that they kept with our blood,” Threehands all but shouted. “So we know how much the knights’ oaths are worth, when it is life or death for our people.”

“Oh, stop picking at old sores,” Gerik said. Before anyone could stop gaping enough to reprove him, he continued.

“Wise chief, wise seer. You need only the truth about our purpose here, nothing else. Enter my mind and heart, where you will find all you need. Leave my sire and mother be, for they will die before they yield up-”

“That also can be done-” Threehands began.

“You must shed my blood before theirs, for I am bound-”

“To those who kill ‘barbarians’ for sport?” Threehands shouted.

By this time Pirvan had dragged his son and wife into a triangle, so that all flanks were guarded and no back was bare. They did not draw steel; Pirvan vowed to leave that dishonor to the Free Riders.

If the two sons of Redthorn clash, Pirvan wondered, will that sow enough confusion among the Gryphons to let us escape?

Perhaps it would. And perhaps it would make the Gryphons easier prey to hostile clans or the Istarians. But bringing that about would break Pirvan’s oath to Hawkbrother, who seemed ready to fight his own brother or even father to keep his agreement. Again, Pirvan saw a trail that led to folly as well as dishonor.

Then he saw nothing at all for a moment. A thunderstorm formed within the cave, and dazzling silver light blinded them all while thunder crashed. Pirvan was sure the cave was about to fall on him and he would be honorably entombed under the rubble of the hill-

His vision cleared, his hearing returned, but speech eluded him.

Standing in the middle of the cave, using his staff as a cane, was Tarothin.

Short of using the edge of his sword, Krythis left nothing untried to speed his passage through the crowd. This brought him within sight of his daughter, as her affray reached its climax.

She stood facing a tall man, whom Krythis recognized as an itinerant fletcher. Not unskilled at his craft, he had a weakness for drink and women-and also a weakness of memory, or so it seemed.

At least he was claiming to remember a promise from Rynthala, that her father was utterly certain she had never made to this man and probably to none other. He claimed to remember this promise, and now came to demand it be kept. To demand in a crowd, at the top of his lungs, with many of the lady’s friends and kin and few of his own within hearing.

Is this son of a she-ass trying to have himself killed, for someone else’s purpose? wondered Krythis. He might have left Rynthala to settle the matter herself, but if there was more than drunken folly here-

In the next moment, Krythis understood just how truly his daughter had come of age, and how little she needed his help.

The man rushed forward. A few guests standing close to him made futile grabs at the ragged shirttail flying behind him. The only one to get a firm grip was a kender, who was too light to halt the man. He rushed onward toward Rynthala.

The woman flung herself backward, rolling as she did. The man hurled himself atop her, just as Rynthala rolled back. Her knees rose, and both caught the man in the groin.

Afterward, some witnesses said the man flew his own height into the air. Less sober witnesses said various fantastic things. Krythis was certain the man rose no more than an arm’s length, but that was high enough to let Rynthala roll clear, spring to her feet, and draw her dagger in case it became a matter for steel.

It did not. The man was writhing on the ground, as unable to rise as a boiled eel, his face a mask of agony. Rynthala knelt beside him, then rose and sheathed her dagger.

“Can someone go for Sirbones?” she called. “This lout may be unmanned for life without healing, and he may not deserve that.”

Somebody must have gone for Sirbones, because the priest of Mishakal did appear a few minutes later. Nearly everybody else spent the time cheering Rynthala, or pounding her on the back, or carrying her on their shoulders (in which the dwarves and humans had greater success than the kender.)

Krythis tried to find someone who looked less than joyful over Rynthala’s bloodless victory, but everyone was moving about too quickly. If the fletcher had any allies in the crowd, they were acting their part well.

A pity, thought Krythis. If I find anyone who plots to launch a blood feud on Rynthala’s great day, I will unman him beyond all healing.

Then several revellers-he could not tell of what race-were grabbing him and dragging him into a line of dancers. Someone else thrust a cup into his free hand, and he drank it off without asking what it was or remembering what it had been.

Nor was this the last such cup. Somewhere in the middle of the drinking, he saw that Rynthala had joined the dancers. She had all her mother’s grace of movement and more, and although her garb had been damaged in the scuffle, she still looked worthy of a royal crown.

One day she will make and keep that promise, Krythis found himself thinking, and on that day the gods will know where to find the happiest man on Krynn.

“Long life to Rynthala!” someone shouted.

“Long life!” Krythis shouted, and then everybody was wishing everybody else long life and much else. The dwarves beat drums, the kender joined in on hoopaks, and a flute that sounded very much like Tulia’s rose silver and sweet above all the din.

The first response to Tarothin’s appearance came from Threehands. He snatched a dagger from his belt, so swiftly that it seemed to sprout from his hand. Then his arm snapped forward.

Tarothin stood, raising neither hand, staff, nor spell. He merely gave slightly with the impact of the dagger, as its point thudded into his chest. Then he worked the dagger free, examined the point, and gently dropped it at his feet.

“A few layers of boiled leather is good enough for daggers, and does not brawl and brangle with spells as mail or plate can do.”

The casual explanation seemed to enrage Threehands further. He flung himself toward Tarothin. He met, instead, his brother, grappling with him bare-handed.

The two brothers rolled on the floor. Before they could do more than tear clothing and lose dignity, Redthorn stepped down from his seat. He carried a long spear, and brought its butt end down smartly on heads, shoulders, buttocks, or whatever presented itself. His speed and agility made it plain that he wore his years lightly; Pirvan hoped they would not face one another in serious combat.

In moments, the two brothers were standing, well apart, glowering at each other, and rubbing bruises.

“You need not defend the Gryphons or your friends with each other’s blood,” Redthorn snapped. He turned to Skytoucher.

“What does this mean? I thought this cave was bound against any magic save yours. Also, you said no Istarian Robed One could read your thoughts. Yet this Tarothin seems to have done that, then pierced your binding spells.”

Skytoucher looked ready to burst, but whether from surprise, rage, or grief (Pirvan doubted it could be fear), was hard to tell.

Tarothin turned to the seer. “Gracious Lady Skytoucher,” he said, in tones that would have been no more reverent had he been addressing a goddess. “I beg your pardon for this intrusion. The secrets of your cave and the spells guarding it are safe with me. Or rather, they are safe with me-as long as the secrets of the knights-”

Skytoucher screamed. She raised a hand and flung magical energy in a searing green bolt, straight at Tarothin.

Without his moving a muscle, the mage’s staff rose before him, then began to whirl, until it blurred into a disk, from which golden sparks rained.

Green magic struck golden magic, and again thunder raged about the cave.

How long it lasted this time, Pirvan did not know. He became senseless again, and for longer than before.

When he regained his senses, he saw Tarothin squatting on the floor, and Redthorn sitting on Skytoucher. The chief had a bloody lip, and other signs that the scuffle had not been entirely one-sided.

Pirvan carefully looked elsewhere, and found the two brothers contemplating their father rather as if he had turned into a dragon.

The first person to actually speak was Gerik.

“Free Riders. My father can’t break his oath to either the knights or Hawkbrother. He just cannot let Skytoucher into his mind.

“I said I would, and I say it again. I know enough to satisfy anyone, except maybe Skytoucher, that we come in friendship. Now we also have a witness, who can keep Skytoucher from doing me any harm-”

“And keep me from reading the truth in this lad’s mind and heart,” the seer said. She rose, shaking off Redthorn’s hand as she did. Yet she smiled at him when she thought no one was looking; Pirvan suspected he was seeing the latest chapter in an old tale of lovers.

“Skytoucher,” Tarothin said. “Will you bind yourself to do Gerik no harm, if I swear a similar oath to leave the mind touching between you and him?”

“Perhaps.”

“Yes or no,” Tarothin said sharply, and Pirvan knew the anger was not feigned. “If no, then you have seen what rubble I can make of your binding spells. Would you care to chance others against me?

A duel of magic would certainly kill Tarothin outright, and the Red Robe had to know it. He also had to know that this was no secret to Skytoucher.

How does one reward that kind of loyalty?

“There will be no further magic worked here today,” Redthorn said firmly. “I have seen a father who would die rather than break either of two oaths that war in him. I have seen a son who would risk his life to save his father. I have seen my son fight his own brother to defend strangers. And I have seen a high wizard of Istar shield his friends with both his magic and his body, at grave risk to both.

“Skytoucher, you said that we might not know the changebringers when we met them. I say you were wrong. We have met them, and we know them.

“Either these people can mean us no harm, or the gods themselves have deserted us. If they have, then I am still chief and first judge of honor among the Gryphons.”

Skytoucher sat down, a weary smile on her face. “I deny nothing of what you say. Tarothin, may we talk wizard to wizard at some future time, if I yield this day?”

“Anytime, at any length,” Tarothin said. “After I regain my strength, however.”

Then he fainted, and when they knew he was only exhausted, not ill, Redthorn and Skytoucher together proclaimed peace and swore to feast the new friends of the Gryphons.

It was a solemn occasion, marred only by the fact that both Pirvan and Haimya tried to embrace their son at the same time and ended up embracing each other. Then Threehands laughed at the spectacle and Hawkbrother bit his thumb at his elder before himself embracing Gerik.

Sitting on a fallen piece of battlement, Krythis saw Tulia step through the curtain wall of the northern outwork of the citadel-or that was what his eyes told him happened. He blinked and tried to count the Tulias. The count started off with three, shrank to two, and finally reduced to one.

While doing this, he also understood why he had seen his wife walk through solid stone. She had actually stepped through a gap in the half-ruined wall, but the moons had tinted the ground outside the same color as the stone.

This was a pleasing discovery. Krythis was reasonably sure he had not drunk that much, or at least had tried not to. He should be seeing only a few unreal things, not many.

Tulia swayed up to him and sat down in his lap. This was not an illusion. Neither was both of them sliding down to the ground, their backs resting comfortably against the stone and their arms around each other.

Furthermore, it was not an illusion that Krythis’s left hand was resting on a part of Tulia he did not usually touch where others might see. Was there anyone to see?

Desire warred with returning memory. Krythis realized he had not seen or heard the centaurs since Rynthala’s brawl. Indeed, he had not heard of them. What had happened with them?

He was able to mumble the question so that Tulia understood his third attempt. She smiled sleepily.

“I gave them the staffs. But by then they felt at peace with the whole world, even without Sirbones’s brandy. They did an exhibition bout with the staffs, then challenged all comers, then danced. People began throwing money. The dance went on.

“I think it ended with each centaur having a dwarf on his back, the dwarf with a kender on his shoulders, and something atop the kender, but I don’t remember what.”

“Not a gully dwarf,” Krythis said. “I don’t think they can balance well enough.”

“You’re a fine one to talk about balancing,” Tulia said, nuzzling his neck.

“Speak for yourself,” Krythis said, tightening his grip.

Tulia sighed happily, then whispered, “I asked Sirbones if he could give a truth potion to the guests.”

“To find out if there was anyone-anyone playing games-behind that drunken fletcher?”

“Exactly so. He said he couldn’t make enough for everybody, and it was unlawful to give it without their consent anyway. But he did sober up eight more guards, and the night band hadn’t drunk, and there were dwarves and kender who’d sobered up by nightfall. Rynthala was going to keep watch too.”

“On this, of all days?”

“Never heard the old tale, about how a girl who keeps watch on her coming-of-age night may have a vision of her future husband?”

“Never.”

“Well, let me tell it you.”

Except that Tulia became so occupied with nuzzling her husband’s neck, and then returning his intimate touches, that the story never got told, or even decently begun, before they were both asleep in each other’s embrace.

Haimya and Pirvan were making the evening rounds of their sentry posts when they encountered Eskaia and Hawkbrother.

It had been too far toward darkness by the time they stepped out of the cave, so the two bands (the united Free Riders and Pirvan’s party) had made camp, close beside each other, but separate. This far within Gryphon lands and this close to their sacred cave, the sentries were meant less to guard against enemies than to keep loose-tongued fighters of either side from wandering about and breaking either their bones or the new peace.

Pirvan wondered how strong the peace was. If it had any strength at all, that, too, he owed to Tarothin. He had not yet thought of any reward sufficient for the Red Robe and doubted he would be able to, but knew honor demanded he at least try.

Knight’s daughter and chief’s son were standing on either side of a horse, she grooming the mane while he examined its hooves for lodged stones. They were a wholly decent distance apart, but Pirvan noticed that Hawkbrother now wore his hair in a single braid much like Eskaia’s, and she wore a necklace of pale blue stones.

Neither was a courtship gift, as far as Pirvan knew, but each clan had its own customs.

I hope the Gryphons at least require the man to ask the woman’s father for permission to court, Pirvan thought, or Tarothin’s work may be wasted.

Then Pirvan nearly stumbled: he’d been casually contemplating the prospect of his daughter wed to a “barbarian.”

Who has also sworn oaths, he reminded himself, that will ensure his treating Eskaia decently if she wishes to have him, or his taking her refusal decently if she does not.

“Ah, Father,” Eskaia said. “I thought you had retired.”

“Oh, it’s not time for this old war-horse to be unsaddled yet,” Pirvan said.

“No, and when he is, he’ll be ridden even harder than before,” Haimya said. Eskaia and Pirvan flushed; Hawkbrother turned away to hide what Pirvan suspected was a grin.

“I wanted to ask Tarothin what he meant by leaping into the cave,” Hawkbrother said. “But Esk-your lady daughter-she persuaded me you should ask that question.”

“Why should I ask Tarothin any such thing?” Pirvan said. He was confused almost to anger. If there was sense behind this question, it escaped him, and insulting the man who had saved them all needed much reason before he would even think of it.

“He did not realize what he was doing-” Hawkbrother began.

“Are you calling him a fool?” Pirvan almost shouted.

Haimya put a hand on his arm. He shook it off before realizing that perhaps he should not wake both camps and have them listen to this conversation.

“No,” Eskaia said. “Father, could you listen to Hawkbrother?”

“I will listen to anyone who speaks sense, or even one who does not, although not for as long.”

Hawkbrother’s gift for storytelling came to the fore again. It seemed Tarothin had risked everyone’s life, beginning with his own and going on to Redthorn. Skytoucher’s binding spells were potent, her personal magic no less so, and in a rage, she had been known to unleash her powers even on friends. She had certainly been in a rage in the cave, and Redthorn had been taking his life in his hands subduing her.

Pirvan nodded slowly. “I will ask Tarothin if he knew what he faced, which I believe he did. I will also ask you to consider what might have come about had he not done as he had. I do not think even Skytoucher would have been pleased with war between the Gryphons and the knights, or her cave in ruins, or the Gryphons losing a chief and two of the chief’s sons. To think otherwise is to call her a fool.”

Hawkbrother shuddered in mock terror. “Gryphons have been staked out on anthills for lesser crimes. No, no, I will not call her a fool. Nor your friend, either. But if he knew what he faced-”

“Then great songs have been sung for lesser heroes,” Eskaia said. “Perhaps you should make one.”

“Eh,” Hawkbrother said, finally looking as bemused as Pirvan. “I am not that fine a bard.”

“I have heard some of your songs and would say otherwise,” Eskaia said. She might have gone on if Haimya had not coughed.

“I will not speak to anyone save Pirvan, and not much to him until dawn,” Haimya said. “Those who wish to chatter the night away, I leave to do so.”

She put a hand on her husband’s arm again, but with a subtle difference that made Pirvan welcome her touch, and drew him away from the younger folk.

In her festal attire, with a cloak borrowed from one of the men-at-arms, Rynthala walked the battlements of Belkuthas. The cloak was hardly large enough for her, but she had draped her own over her parents when she found them asleep in the outer ward. She had also made sure two guards watched them, and two more the outworks at all times.

She also watched over them when her rounds brought her past them. But most of the time she was staring out over the land to the east. It sloped downward, sharply at first, then more gently, before disappearing into virgin forest that stretched all the way to the plains.

Nothing was moving on the open ground save pinpoints of light and curls of smoke from the torches of farmers, foresters, and guests who lived close enough to chance the journey home at night rather than sleep on the floor in the citadel. She did not expect anything else to move. If an armed warrior did appear, she was more likely to give the alarm than to suspect him of being her future husband.

Still, the old wives would be happier if she kept the vigil, and probably her mother, as well. It was so easy to make people happy, or at least pleased and grateful; even between husband and wife. Although that was probably not true of all husbands and wives, it was true for Rynthala’s parents-extraordinary folk, even among the half-elven.

She came to the northwest corner, and looked toward the forest that way, clinging to the steeper slopes of the mountains as they rose toward the sky. Nothing there, except a glint of light that might be some gnome or dwarf doing forge work too smoky for a cave.

She stood for a while, but saw nothing else, and continued her rounds.

More eyes than two studied the land around Zephros’s camp. But they had no more luck in seeing danger than Rynthala had in seeing men.

It was not altogether their fault. Some of them were seasoned sell-swords, and one woman had the keenest night vision in the camp.

But kender are small to begin with, and deft at hiding. When they become desert-wise, it is as if they possess cloaks of invisibility.