Roland Green: Knights of the Crown

Dargaard Keep rose into history and fell into ruin through Lord Soth, who could have prevented the Cataclysm but found cause to do otherwise. Its name became hardly less cursed than that of its lord.

But it was not always a ruin, haunted by evil shades and even less mentionable entities. Once it stood tall and glorious, its pink stone a beacon for anyone within three days’ journeying. In the time of Istar’s greatest power, it was a seat of the Knights of Solamnia, second only to Vingaard Keep itself.

The knights were not at their height in the days when Istar claimed most of the world and actually ruled a good part of it. Even in their ranks, some doubted that the knights would ever again have the high purpose that they had in the days of their founding, or more recently in the time of Huma Dragonbane. They spread their doubts, and young men eager to win honor by heroic deeds did not come forward as they once had.

Others among the knights knew better. They knew that this was one of those times when men lived so well and so much at peace that they forgot gods and warriors alike. When evil or mere folly offended the gods and sowed wars, the knights would be remembered. Men would call on them to ride out in the old way.

It was the purpose of some of those knights, in Dargaard Keep and elsewhere, to make certain preparations for that day.

Sir Marod, Knight of the Rose, had always been an early riser. On a farm, one hardly had a choice in the matter, not when the cows began lowing to be milked even before the cock’s crow. In his first training at Dargaard Keep, he had been alert when too many of his comrades were still bleary-eyed and stumble-footed.

Thirty years later, he still rose early, and more so than usual on days of ceremony or battle. Today was a rite that also represented a battle won for the future of the knights, so he had been awake and praying since false dawn crept into the sky.

He had shaved his cheeks and chin and trimmed his mustache and hair, both now more silver-gray than brown, while the sky was still the color of Vingaard Keep’s stone. Now he stood in white tunic and trousers, supple boots and broad belt, while his squire armed him.

Old Elius did not really deserve that traditional name, for in better days squires had been lads still in their teens, polishing their knightly skills and honor by attending their elders in chamber and on the battlefield. Elius had seen his share of battles, as a sergeant in the knights’ foot scouts, and bore their marks in the form of a blind eye and a stiff knee. He deserved to be at a snug fireside, with a cup of tarberry tea and a pipe, telling of long-ago fights and frolics, rather than doing a boy’s work.

But like many old warriors, Elius had neglected to provide himself with children to offer that fireside, tea, and pipe. The knights would not give the old and faithful servants to the windy road or the equally chill charity of the priests. They would provide something better.

With Elius and his like it was almost easy. Some knights needed servants, so that they could eat and sleep as well as do their duty. Others thought that their rank and state entitled them to it. If they were willing to pay for the service themselves, the leaders of the knights would look the other way.

Marod sat on a stool as Elius buckled on the leg armor and attached the spurs to the boots. Then he knelt and the two began the undignified struggle to don the heavy mail shirt. At last Marod rose, with Elius kneeling beside him to pull the shirt down to the proper level.

Now came the breastplate, the backplate, the throat protection, and the open-faced ceremonial helm with the crest of silver roses. Elius was as careful with the helmet lacings as if Marod’s life would depend on them, though they were of gold-washed silk rather than robust leather and might have lasted three minutes in battle.

At last, the weapons, Marod’s own choice for ceremonial occasions. He had once been chief among all the knights in the art of fighting unarmored with sword and dagger, so he wore the sword with the foxstone inlays and the dagger with the crystal pommel in the shape of a rose.

At last he looked in the mirror. It was a small one, so Elius had to move it around to give the knight a complete look at himself. Finally Marod ran a finger across his mustache and laughed softly.

“Oh, to be young again.”

“Was it not you, Sir Marod, who last month left six men young enough to be your very sons, sweating and bruised when they left the training rooms?”

“I suppose it was, or someone all saw fit to confuse with me. But I was thinking of how I look in this garb. Am I only disguising myself as a warrior?”

“Eh, it’s not my place to say.”

“If you won’t offer opinions when you have them, Elius, the knights are truly facing dire times.”

“Ah, well, then I say-you don’t look ready for the robe and pipe any more than I do.”

Marod swallowed laughter, not too successfully, but a knock at the door drew him away.

“Who enters here?”

“Sir Lewin of Delan, attending Sir Marod.”

“Enter, Sir Lewin!” Marod called. He lifted a cloak of owlbear skin, and draped it over his shoulders. Elius had just finished thrusting in a heavy gold pin when the other knight entered.

Were he a few years younger, Sir Lewin could have been the son Marod did not and now never would have. However, Marod would not have been wholly content to see any son of his loins grow to a manhood like Lewin’s. The younger knight was of the second order, the Order of the Sword, so he had proved himself wise as well as formidable. But there was a brittleness in his manner and an extravagance in his dress that smelled of unhappiness-with others, with himself, with not receiving honors or attention he thought were his due?

Those were Marod’s three principal guesses, but he would call them no more. Nor were any of them certain paths to dishonor or even error. Knights had fought well, lived long, and died full of years and honors with more vices than Lewin had shown so far.

“This is not an auspicious day for the knights,” Lewin said briskly.

That such remarks were not an auspicious beginning for the ceremonies was on the tip of Marod’s tongue. He left it there. Lewin always talked himself out of whatever temper he was in, if left alone to grumble and growl.

“Ah well, who knows what the Knights of Solamnia have admitted to their orders in days past?” Marod said, with a wry smile. “Far worse than anything we face today, I do not doubt. Yet we survive.”

“We did not once survive at the mercy of Istar,” Lewin said.

“I doubt that they will say much when one of their leading merchants favors today’s new knight.”

“Only favors? Or is he the merchant’s bought man?”

That was beyond the limits that even Lewin in a temper could be allowed.

“It is against the laws to speak against a knight’s honor in that way, and very much against my wishes as well. If you hope for this day to be auspicious, consider guarding your tongue.”

Lewin was not too angry to acknowledge a command from a lawful superior. He bowed his head. “Forgive me, Sir Marod.”

“I do. Or rather, I will, when you have repeated your remarks to our new Knight of the Crown and begged his forgiveness.”

“You would not-?” Lewin began, then seemed to feel the air turn chill around him from Marod’s gaze alone. “You would,” he finished. “Therefore, I will do as you bid. And as honor, Oath, and law require,” he added, half-grudgingly.

Lewin stepped to one side, and Elius to the other, to allow Marod to precede them. The Knight of the Rose strode out, then turned to the right. As he turned, Lewin’s words (and what Lewin showed on his face, which he dared not put into words) ran through his mind.