Douglas Niles - Measure and the Truth

“What in the name of the Abyss is going on back there?” Jaymes snarled, spinning his horse and staring in amazement at the column of smoke rising from the rear of the column. In the next instant, he put spurs to the steed and went racing back against the line of march, his horse dancing along the side of the road.

“Templar, follow me!” he ordered, coming on the Clerist Knight and his small company of priest-warriors. He didn’t wait to see that they obeyed, but continued racing headlong to the rear.

The damage was apparent while he was still a mile away. At least one wagon had exploded into bits, and many others were burning. He saw the tail end of the Vingaard column disappearing into the woods and forgot about them-at least for the time being.

There would be time enough, later, for the enemy to feel his wrath.

He had to save the bombards, if at all possible. But by the time he reached the scene, he could see that one of the great barrels was enveloped by flames, and that the fire covered the wooden body of the great carriage supporting the gun. Even as the emperor watched, the wagon collapsed, and the timbers forming the bore of the great barrel started to blacken. A second bombard lay on its side, cracked and broken-by some kind of magic, he suspected.

The third and last cannon was wreathed in smoke, but the wagon was not yet engulfed by flames, not yet lost. Templar, his own horse lathered, galloped up behind Jaymes, and the emperor pointed angrily at the lone bombard in its cradle of vulnerable wood, just starting to catch fire.

“Put that out!” he ordered.

The Clerist immediately began casting a spell. Jaymes watched soundlessly, his teeth clenched and his jaw aching, as a cloud quickly formed above the burning wagon. In no time a steady rain began to fall, and a few moments later the flames had been reduced to sizzling, blackened embers. The lone remaining bombard had survived, essentially undamaged.

“My lord!” cried General Dayr, coming up to the site on a frothing horse. “What happened?”

“Happened?” retorted the emperor coldly. He thought for a moment, his eyes glaring at the dark forest where the attackers had withdrawn.

“What happened is that the fate of Vingaard has been sealed,” he declared before turning his back on the damage and riding back toward the head of his army.

Selinda stared at the door to her room, the door that was almost constantly closed, tightly locked, and always carefully guarded, on the orders of her husband, the emperor. He was gone from the city, but his presence, his authority, seemed to linger everywhere-in the walls surrounding her, amid the guards who were the only people she saw, in the very air she breathed. She found herself turning quickly around several times each day, checking against the strong sensation he was in the room, watching her.

She wore the ring of teleportation from Coryn the White on her finger, nervously touching it as she looked at the door again. Selinda had been wearing the ring, staring at it, thinking about it, for a number of days. But she had been so worried about the unseen presence of the emperor that she had done nothing yet to activate the magical circlet.

It was not the closed, locked door that worried her, but rather those not-infrequent times when it swung open. Her guards were respectful, even kindly, and they often checked in on her to see whether she needed anything, how she was feeling, or simply to offer a bit of news or a home-baked treat from one of their wives. At first, Selinda welcomed the brief interaction with them, the few moments of conversation; otherwise her routine was monotonous. It lessened her sense of isolation to learn that a troupe of players had arrived in the city and were performing farces every evening, or that a cargo of fresh oranges had just arrived at the port.

But what if one of those guards came in to visit and found she was gone, thanks to Coryn’s magic ring? Whatever consequences she imagined were too frightening to contemplate. It was this fear, more than anything else, that had stayed her hand for a week, since Jaymes had marched through the pass and onto the plains. Instead, she had spent most of her time studying the city, the sky, the mountains, and the bay, from her lofty window. She watched and she remembered and she continued to seethe.

As the days passed slowly, she found herself snapping at the guards when they came by. She complained about the quality of her food, even though it was always prepared and served perfectly. She demanded things-fabrics and thread, links of jewelry chain and baubles, paints and canvas-that she had no intention of using. What was initially sadness became anger, and then the anger became barely repressed fury.

Until, at last, she knew that she could stay in that place no longer. Having just sent away her supper, barely touched, she had a reasonable hope she would be allowed privacy for the rest of the evening. If not… well, she was finally prepared to take the chance. The time was ripe for her to visit the person she wanted to see.

She donned a cloak with a soft hood that would conceal her face and her golden hair, and she removed her jewelry-except for the magical circlet given to her by the white wizard. With her destination clearly in mind, she followed Coryn’s instructions, turning the ring on her finger and imagining the place, calling up every detail she could remember.

The world faded away and she felt a momentary lightness in her stomach, the same sensation she’d experienced when she was riding and her horse took a high jump over a fence or stream. Selinda reached out to both sides, seeking something, anything, to grab for balance, but there was nothing there. She fought the urge to scream, but didn’t want to alarm her guards. The nothingness that surrounded her was everywhere, and her panic surged.

And just like that, the feeling passed. She found herself standing in the vestibule of the great temple of Kiri-Jolith, one of the loftiest sanctuaries in Palanthas, which was exactly the place she had imagined as her destination. The unsettled feeling lingered in her stomach, and she breathed hard, but other than that, everything seemed normal. Instinctively wary, she ducked behind the nearest row of the columns that lined both sides of the great house of worship and waited for a moment, listening for any sound of alarm, any indication her sudden arrival had been noticed.

But all seemed quiet. Soon her stuttered breathing settled down, and as she touched the cool marble of a nearby column, she was reassured by its solidity. Looking around, she took stock of her surroundings. Though she was the lone visitor in the vestibule, a hundred or more voices were raised in a steady chant.

They were the prayers of vesperspeak, she knew, the ritual celebration of the clerics, apprentices, and acolytes that marked the end of church business for the day. She leaned back against the marble column and was reassured by the sounds that had been a part of her life since earliest childhood. The chants were in an ancient tongue, and she did not understand the words, but there was comfort merely in the solemn repetition. For long minutes she stood in the shadows, listening to the quasimusical prayers, which finally swelled to a crescendo that signaled the conclusion of worship.

Finally the ritual ended with a whispered benediction and a few moments of symbolic silence. Eventually Selinda could hear the low buzz of conversation as the clerics rose and offered each other good wishes before dispersing-some to their houses or apartments nearby, while others would make their way to residences in either wing of the great temple. She heard the soft rustling of robes and sandals as people filed out, past the shadowy alcove where she lurked. When most of the clerics had exited, she finally emerged and advanced into the great, vaulted sanctuary.