Douglas Niles - Lord of the Rose

One duke passed through each door. Each had his wife on his arm, each was trailed by exactly five retainers. That number had only been established, Selinda was informed by Lady Martha, after negotiations lasting most of the night. Proceeding with elaborate dignity, the three great lords advanced to their seats, which were equal in grandeur to Selinda’s except they were all on a slightly lower section of dais, all four chairs forming the sides of a square.

Selinda found herself intrigued, in spite of herself, by the appearance of the two tardy lords. Duke Jarrod of Thelgaard was a huge man with a shaggy black mane of hair and a full, flowing beard of the same hue. His beard was divided into two braids, parting to reveal the emblem of the Crown upon his silver breastplate. Despite his girth, there was dignity and purpose in his long strides, and the way he carried himself proved he still boasted greater than average strength. His reputation held him to be a ferocious battle leader, contemptuous of his own safety in pursuit of a foe, and from the look of barely contained fury lurking in his dark countenance the princess had no difficulty believing this. His emblem was a stark banner, a pennant of sheer black displaying the Crown sigil in purest white.

She remembered Martha’s words and wondered if the Duke of Thelgaard had been imbibing. In truth, she could see no sign of any inebriation. His wife was with him, leaning on his arm, an old crone of a woman. Her posture was stooped, as she shuffled along with his support. He was patient, walking slowly, and he showed surprising tenderness as he escorted her to a chair near his own.

Duke Rathskell of Solanthus was, in many ways, the very opposite of his rival in appearance. He was short, slender, with wiry limbs and a quick, graceful gait. His mustache was small and neat, his beard trimmed short so that it just outlined his chin and mouth. Reputedly Rathskell was a swordsman of consummate skill, and as Selinda beheld his dancer’s grace and the quick, observant flashing of his eyes, she judged that this reputation, too, was accurate. She remembered Lady Martha’s indiscreet gossip-that this duke had murdered his wife’s former husband-and she had no trouble believing that the story might be true. A courtier carried the duke’s blue banner, upon which the image of a silver sword was prominently displayed.

Rathskell’s wife didn’t so much walk as slither. She was very beautiful, with enormous breasts that swelled out the front of her tight-fitting gown. She smiled at the knights around her, then turned her adoring eyes to the face of her husband, who seemed to be suffering the proceedings with barely concealed contempt.

In contrast to these swaggering, warlike lords, Duke Crawford of Caergoth seemed casual and at ease. He was handsome and friendly and spoke congenially with members of the other dukes’ parties. He had a joke for Thelgaard that actually caused the big man to chuckle aloud, and when he greeted Solanthus he squeezed the man’s arm and leaned closer to offer a private word. Lady Martha, on his arm, glanced at Selinda and flashed a wink.

Eyeing each other, the two rival dukes arrived at their chairs at the same moment. Lady Selinda bowed to them all and took her seat. A moment later the three great nobles sat down, and the nobles, retainers, and ladies settled into their chairs. The three hundred knights and the heralds, of course, remained standing. The princess nodded to Sir Marckus, who stood behind his lord, and that worthy captain signaled to three squires. Each released a cord, and three glorious banners unfurled from the ceiling, rippling downward like silken tapestries to display the sigils of the Crown, Sword, and Rose behind their respective dukes. A moment later the fourth banner, a pure white strip of silk, unfurled behind Selinda, trailing down from the ceiling to the floor.

Patriarch Issel, the leading cleric in Caergoth-high priest of the church of Shinare-was going to give an invocation, Selinda recalled. He stood now and spoke of the importance of the knighthood and the vital coin of trade that their protection allowed to flow through the city. He got a little too bogged down in matters of debit and income for Selinda’s tastes, and she was grateful when at last, after five minutes, he brought his prayer to a close.

Finally, it was time for the real work of the conference to begin. The princess rose to her feet and cleared her throat.

“Your Excellencies, lords of Solamnia, nobles and ladies, good knights and worthy squires. It is my honor to welcome you all on my father’s behalf to the Council of Caergoth.”

Her father had written this speech, advising her to read it loud and clear at the start of the conference. In her two days in the city she had studied it, deleted some parts that she found too bombastic, and added a few pertinent details that her father had neglected. Then she had committed it to memory, so that she could keep her eyes trained on her listeners as she made her points.

“We may well be proud of our accomplishments in the time since the end of the War of Souls. We have removed the scourge of the Dark Knights from the lands once ruled by Vinas Solamnus. We have begun to repair the depredations wrought by the Dragon Overlords, most notably the evil of the vile Khellendros-though we must all acknowledge that this task in its entirety will last well beyond any of our lifetimes. We have begun to raise the banners of justice, to restore law and order, and pride in the Oath and Measure, throughout these hallowed realms.”

“Hear, hear!” The assent echoed around the chamber, a rumble of deep male voices.

“These gains have not been without sacrifice. One such sacrifice, more than any other, has added a bitter spice to this taste of freedom. My father bade, and my own heart requires, that I ask you all to bow your heads in silence as we do every Autumnul, in memory of the bold, the true, the noble Lord Lorimar.”

Selinda’s voice hardened, and so did her gaze. “It remains bitter medicine to us all that the assassin of Lord Lorimar still roams the lands of Solamnia-a symbol of how much work there is still to be done, restoring justice to the land. For more than three years Lorimar’s assassin has evaded capture, though the unprecedented reward of a thousand Palanthian crowns lies upon his head. It is the Lord Regent’s wish that this reward now be increased to twenty-five hundred crowns, paid from my father’s own treasury, to the knight who captures or slays the Assassin.

“In the absence of a prisoner or a dead body, the return of Lord Lorimar’s legendary sword, Giantsmiter, shall constitute proof of fulfillment. This man’s identity is well known to all of you. His name is Jaymes Markham, and he was formerly a Knight of the Rose. His treachery is all the more wicked because he was the trusted leader of Lorimar’s personal guards, the rest of whom perished in the attack. His treachery is a mystery, but he is known to prize the great sword, Giantsmiter, and as such is a marked man.”

“My Lady, if you will forgive the interruption, I may offer a tidbit of news-perhaps too trivial and tardy to warrant urgent status-but it regards that mighty blade.” The speaker was Duke Rathskell of Solanthus. The duke had risen abruptly to his feet, but now spoke respectfully, with a slight bow of his head that conveyed his apologies to the princess.

“Please-what can you tell us?” she said.

“I received word several months ago from one of my knights-Sir Percival, the captain of my scouts.” The duke indicated a large Knight of the Sword with a shock of red hair and a mustache with twin plumes flowing lower than his chin. “While patrolling in the foothills of the Garnet Range, Sir Percival had occasion to inspect the stronghold of a bandit lord, a certain Cornellus, who maintains a disreputable post up there.