Маргарет Уэйс - Dragons of Spring Dawning

“I would be pleased to, lord, if any of us are here in three weeks,” Laurana said, clenching her hands tightly beneath the table in an effort to remain calm.

Lord Amothus blinked, then smiled indulgently. “Certainly. The dragonarmies. Well, to continue reading. ‘I am truly grieved to hear of the loss of so many of our Knighthood. Let us find comfort in the knowledge that they died victorious, fighting this great evil that darkens our lands. I feel an even greater personal grief in the loss of three of our finest leaders: Derek Crownguard, Knight of the Rose, Alfred MarKenin, Knight of the Sword, and Sturm Brightblade, Knight of the Crown.” The Lord turned to Laurana. “Brightblade. He was your close friend, I believe, my dear?”

“Yes, my lord,” Laurana murmured, lowering her head, letting her golden hair fall forward to hide the anguish in her eyes. It had been only a short time since they had buried Sturm in the Chamber of Paladine beneath the ruins of the High Clerist’s Tower. The pain of his loss still ached.

“Continue reading, Amothus,” Astinus commanded coldly. “I cannot afford to take too much time from my studies.”

“Certainly, Astinus,” the Lord said, flushing. He began to read again hurriedly. “This tragedy leaves the knights in unusual circumstances. First, the Knighthood is now made up of— as I understand—primarily Knights of the Crown—the lowest order of knights. This means that—while all have passed their tests and won their shields—they are, however, young and inexperienced. For most, this was their first battle. It also leaves us without any suitable commanders since—according to the Measure—there must be a representative from each of the three Orders of Knights in command.’ ”

Laurana could hear the faint jingle of armor and the rattle of swords as the knights present shifted uncomfortably. They were temporary leaders until this question of command could be settled. Closing her eyes, Laurana sighed. Please, Gunthar, she thought, let your choice be a wise one. So many have died because of political maneuvering. Let this be an end to it!

“‘Therefore I appoint to fill the position of leadership of the Knights of Solamnia, Lauralanthalasa of the royal house of Qualinesti—’ ” The Lord paused a moment, as if uncertain he had read correctly. Laurana’s eyes opened wide as she stared at him in shocked disbelief. But she was not more shocked than the knights themselves.

Lord Amothus peered vaguely at the scroll, rereading it. Then, hearing a murmur of impatience from Astinus, he hurried on—"‘who is the most experienced person currently in the field and the only one with knowledge of how to use the dragonlances. I attest to the validity of this Writ by my seal. Lord Gunthar Uth Wistan, Grand Master of the Knights of Solamnia, and so forth.’” The Lord looked up. “Congratulations, my dear—or perhaps I should say ‘general.’”

Laurana sat very still. For a moment she was so filled with anger she thought she might stalk out of the room. Visions swam before her eyes—Lord Alfred’s headless corpse, poor Derek dying in his madness, Sturm’s peace-filled, lifeless eyes, the bodies of the knights who had died in the Tower laid out in a row...

And now she was in command. An elfmaid from the royal household. Not even old enough—by elven standards—to be free of her father’s house. A spoiled little girl who had run away from her home to “chase after” her childhood sweetheart, Tanis Half-Elven. That spoiled little girl had grown up. Fear, pain, great loss, great sorrow—she knew that—in some ways—she was older than her father now.

Turning her head, she saw Sir Markham and Sir Patrick exchange glances. Of all the Knights of the Crown, these two had served longest. She knew both men to be valiant soldiers and honorable men. They had both fought bravely at the High Clerist’s Tower. Why hadn’t Gunthar picked one of them, as she herself had recommended?

Sir Patrick stood up, his face dark. “I cannot accept this,” he said in a low voice. “Lady Laurana is a valiant warrior, certainly, but she has never commanded men in the field.”

“Have you, young knight?” Astinus asked imperturbably.

Patrick flushed. “No, but that’s different. She’s a wom—”

“Oh, really, Patrick!” Sir Markham laughed. He was a carefree, easy-going young man—a startling contrast to the stern and serious Patrick. “Hair on your chest doesn’t make you a general. Relax! It’s politics. Gunthar has made a wise move.”

Laurana flushed, knowing he was right. She was a safe choice until Gunthar had time to rebuild the Knighthood and entrench himself firmly as leader.

“But there is no precedent for this!” Patrick continued to argue, avoiding Laurana’s eyes. “I’m certain that—according to the Measure—women are not permitted in the Knighthood—”

“You are wrong,” Astinus stated flatly. “And there is precedent. In the Third Dragon wars, a young woman was accepted into the Knighthood following the deaths of her father and her brothers. She rose to Knight of the Sword and died honorably in battle, mourned by her brethren.”

No one spoke. Lord Amothus appeared extremely embarrassed—he had almost sunk beneath the table at Sir Markham’s reference to hairy chests. Astinus stared coldly at Sir Patrick. Sir Markham toyed with his wineglass, glancing once at Laurana and smiling. After a brief, internal struggle, visible in his face, Sir Patrick sat back down, scowling.

Sir Markham raised his glass. “To our commander.”

Laurana did not respond. She was in command. Command of what? she asked herself bitterly. The tattered remnants of the Knights of Solamnia, who had been sent to Palanthas; of the hundreds that had sailed, no more than fifty survived. They had won a victory... but at what terrible cost? A dragon orb destroyed, the High Clerist’s Tower in ruins...

“Yes, Laurana,” said Astinus, “they have left you to pick up the pieces.”

She looked up startled, frightened of this strange man who spoke her thoughts.

“I didn’t want this,” she murmured through lips that felt numb.

“I don’t believe any of us were sitting around praying for a war,” Astinus remarked caustically. “But war has come, and now you must do what you can to win it.” He rose to his feet. The Lord of Palanthas, the generals, and the Knights stood up respectfully.

Laurana remained seated, her eyes on her hands. She felt Astinus staring at her, and she stubbornly refused to look at him.

“Must you go, Astinus?” Lord Amothus asked plaintively.

“I must. My studies wait. Already I have been gone too long. You have a great deal to do now, much of it mundane and boring. You do not need me. You have your leader.” He made a motion with his hand.

“What?” Laurana said, catching his gesture out of the corner of her eye. Now she looked at him, then her eyes went to the Lord of Palanthas. “Me? You can’t mean that! I’m only in command of the Knights—”

“Which makes you commander of the armies of the city of Palanthas, if we so choose,” the Lord said. “And if Astinus recommends you—”

“I don’t,” Astinus said bluntly. “I cannot recommend anyone. I do not shape history—” He stopped suddenly, and Laurana was surprised to see the mask slip from his face, revealing grief and sorrow. “That is, I have endeavored not to shape history. Sometimes, even I fail....” He sighed, then regained control of himself, replacing the mask. “I have done what I came to do, given you a knowledge of the past. It may or may not be relevant to your future.”

He turned to leave.

“Wait!” Laurana cried, rising. She started to take a step toward him, then faltered as the cold, stern eyes met hers, forbidding as solid stone. “You—you see—everything that is happening, as it occurs?”