Margaret Weis - Dragons of Summer Flame

“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 dean the bodies, wash off the blood, shut the clouded, staring eyes.