Margaret Weis - Dragons of Summer Flame

Steel escorted the White Robe to his superior, Subcommander Sequor Trevalin.

“Sir, here is the prisoner, as you commanded.” The subcommander glanced at the prisoner, then shifted his gaze to the Nightlord who had accompanied them. Trevalin, too, seemed surprised to note the honored company in which they traveled. He saluted the Nightlord, who outranked him. “I thank you for your assistance in this matter, Madam.” “I did not see that I had much choice,” she replied bitterly. “It is Her Majesty’s will.”

The comment apparently greatly puzzled Trevalin. Queen Takhisis oversaw all they did—or so the knights believed—but surely Her Dark Majesty had more important matters to occupy her immortal mind than simply identifying prisoners. Wizards were strange folk, however, and the Nightlord was stranger than most. Who knew what she meant now? Trevalin certainly wasn’t going to ask. He proceeded swiftly with the task at hand.

“Sir Mage, if you could give us the names and titles of these knights, we will see that these are recorded, that posterity may honor their bravery as they deserve.”

The young mage was exhausted by the walk, the heat, and the pain he suffered. He appeared to be dazed, stood looking at the bodies without recognition, as he might have looked at the bodies of strangers. His arm, resting on Steel’s, trembled.

“Perhaps, sir,” Steel suggested, “if the mage might have some water. Or a cup of wine.”

“Certainly.” Trevalin supplied not wine, but a cup of potent brandy he kept in a flask on his belt.

The young mage drank it heedlessly, probably not knowing what passed his lips. But the first sip brought some color back to the pale cheeks. That and the brief rest appeared to have helped. He even went so far as to thrust aside Steel’s arm and stand on his own.

The White Robe closed his eyes. His lips moved. He appeared to be offering up a prayer, for Steel thought he heard the whispered word “Paladine.”

Strength restored, probably more from the prayer than the brandy, the young mage limped over to the first of the dead. The White Robe bent down and drew aside the cape that had been laid over the face. A tremor of relief, as well as sorrow, shook his voice as he pronounced the name and the title, adding the knight’s homeland.

“Sir Llewelyn ap Ellsar, Knight of the Rose from Guthar of Sancrist.”

He moved down the row of dead with more strength and fortitude than the young knight would have first credited him.

“Sir Horan Devishtor, Knight of the Crown from Palanthas township; Sir Yori Beck, Knight of the Crown from Caergoth; Sir Percival Nelish...” He continued on.

A scribe, summoned by Subcommander Trevalin, followed, recording all the details on a horn slate.

And then the young mage came to the last two bodies. He stopped, looked back over the row of dead. Everyone there could see him taking count. He bowed his head, pressed his hand over his eyes, and did not move.

Steel moved to Trevalin’s side.

“He mentioned something to me about a brother, sir.”

Trevalin nodded in understanding, said nothing. The White Robe had revealed all the officer needed to know. There were no more knights; none had escaped.

The White Robe knelt down. With a trembling hand, he drew aside the cape that covered the still, cold face. He choked on his grief, sat huddled near the body.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the scribe. “I didn’t understand what you said. This man’s name?”

“Majere,” whispered the White Robe brokenly. “Sturm Majere. And that”—he moved to lift the cape that covered the other knight’s face—“is Tanin Majere.”

Bending over them, he wiped the blood from the shattered faces, kissed each one on the chill forehead.

“My brothers.”

“Majere.” Steel turned to face the young mage. “Majere. I know that name.”

Overcome by his grief, the White Robe did not respond. He had probably not even heard. The Nightlord heard, however. She made a soft hissing sound, breath drawn inward. The green eyes shut partway. She gazed at Steel from beneath lowered lids.

He paid no attention to the Nightlord. Steel walked forward, came to stand beside the mage. The young man was tall, well built, though he lacked the bulky musculature of his soldier brothers. His hair was a rich auburn; he wore it long to his shoulders. His hands were the hands of the mage: supple, slender, with tapered fingers. Now that Steel studied the young man, he could see the resemblance, not only to the bodies lying in the sand, but to the man who had once saved Steel Brightblade’s life.

“Majere. Caramon Majere. These”—Steel indicated the dead knights—“must be his two eldest sons. And you are the younger. You are the son of Caramon Majere?”

“I am Palin,” the young mage answered brokenly. With one hand, he brushed back the damp red curls from his brother’s cold forehead. The other hand clung tightly to the staff, as if drawing from it the strength that was keeping him alive. “Palin Majere.”

“Son of Caramon Majere, nephew of Raistlin Majere!” the Nightlord whispered with sibilant emphasis.

At this, Subcommander Trevalin—who had been paying scant attention, mulling over the logistics of moving the bodies, the detailing of men to the task—lifted his head, looked with greater interest at the young White Robe.

“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 me 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.