Michael Williams - The Oath and the Measure

Surely the Knights would incline their ear to redress Lord Boniface's misdeeds. For Justice is the heart of the Measure and the soul of the Rose.

On he rode, into the mountainous night, until the faint sentry lights on the battlements of the Knight's Spur shone high in the west like one last constellation.

They clothed him, and fed him, and put him to bed. Old Reza attended the Knight's quarters in the early hours of the morning, and it was he who saw to Sturm's comfort, arranging bread and cheese on a table in front of the lad and pouring goblet after goblet of water while he poured Tower gossip into Sturm's inattentive ears.

"And the Jeoffreys feuded with the MarKenins once more, young master, though not as fiercely as they done back in the summer of 'twenty-seven. It all started when young Hieronymus Jeoffrey lit into Alastor MarKenin after some hunting they done in the Hart's Forest. Hieronymus come from it with a black eye and a dented countenance, which makes Darien Jeoffrey decide that Sir Alastor is needin' to be… well, adorned likewise. So Darien and a trio of younger Jeoffreys light into Alastor in a dark passage over the Knight's Spur, and he comes out with eye and countenance and a broken left hand to boot. Which Lord Alfred redresses by pushing Darien against a crenel the next morning and grabbing the lad's off hand with a little too much emphasis, if you understand…"

Sturm nodded. Reza continued serenely, forgetting his traditional place in the excitement of the story and seating himself by the young man.

"But in that process, Master Sturm, Sir Darien comes away with the additional bruised ribs, which Lord Adamant goes around claiming Lord Alfred has not got and is in sore need of. So Lords Adamant and Alfred came to the edge of dueling and would of passed over into swords or lances had not Lord Stephan stepped in and smoothed down the hackles…"

Sturm nodded and mumbled, his mouth full of bread. The Tower was the same.

"And, of course, like he always does," Reza babbled on serenely, "Lord Boniface says that they should settle it by the sword anyway, though betwixt you and me, young Master, they could settle it if only one of them knew how to let a bygone be and get on with the business of knighthood. Anyway, Lord Boniface says it could be arms courteous, the blunted sword or the wicker, but that the Measure said, and so and so…"

Sturm was instantly alert at the name of his father's old friend. Slowly he set down the goblet and stared at the ancient servant, trying his best to appear calm, only mildly interested.

"Lord Boniface, you say? Then he… is here at the Tower?"

Reza nodded. "Have some more cheese, Master Sturm," he offered, pushing the plate toward the lad. "Yes, indeed, Lord Boniface is here."

"Then I shall have to pay my respects, out of family loyalty," Sturm replied-a little too quickly, he feared. "Yes. I'll call on him and pay my respects."

He smiled at the old servant and accepted another wedge of cheese. His thoughts raced quickly over strategies.

"He'll expect you right away," Reza prodded. "You know how he is about the Measure."

"Indeed he will," Sturm said, grateful for the interfering nature of ancient retainers. "Indeed he will, Reza, and given the hour and my weariness, I should be beholding if you would say nothing of my arrival until a time when I might… present myself to him."

Reza nodded, bowed, and backed away from the table. Sturm finished the bread, sure of the old man's confidence. Then he stood quietly, yawned, took the candle from the table, and slipped down a back stairwell to his cubicle. He was tired and already dreaming as he approached the room, oblivious to the hour, the birdsong outside, the soft shuffling on the stairs behind him.

As Sturm closed the door behind him, a faint light appeared on the stairwell landing. Stealthily Derek Crown-guard peered around the corner, smiled, and padded up the steps to his uncle's chambers.

Sturm announced his presence the next morning.

He collared a page in the hall and sent the boy rushing to Lord Alfred MarKenin, bearing the news that Master Sturm Brightblade had returned from parts eastward and south and would be honored to give account of his journey in the presence of the High Council.

When the page returned at noon to escort him to the council room of the Knight's Spur, Sturm followed the child, his armor spotless and buffed, his sword glittering and naked in his hand. For an odd moment in his quarters, he had thought to place the weapon in the sheath that was Vertumnus's gift.

He had decided against it. It was a gleaming reminder of his defeat.

Sturm knew that the High Council was made up of Lords Gunthar, Alfred, and Stephan. Since the council sat privately with each returning Knight, Boniface would not be present. For what Sturm had to say, that absence would be most welcome.

The council room was none other than the great hall in which the Yule banquet had taken place. Stripped of its ornament and restored to its everyday function, it seemed dark and serviceable, an office of state rather than a seat of ceremony, the heart of efficiency rather than elegance.

His first surprise was a rude one. Alfred was there, and Lord Gunthar, but instead of Lord Stephan Peres, Boniface Crownguard of Foghaven sat in the third council seat. When Sturm entered the room, Boniface leaned forward, his face expressionless but his eyes cold and absorbed as an archer's on the target.

Sturm completed the three ceremonial bows distractedly, and in the third of the six formal addresses, he stumbled over the word "impeccable" and blushed deeply.

It was not according to the Measure, this sloppiness. It had been too long since he attended to ritual, and there was Boniface besides…

"You presume much, Sturm Brightblade," Alfred observed, "to request audience with this council. After all, you are not yet of the Order."

"True enough, Lord Alfred," Sturm agreed. He found it difficult not to look at Boniface. "And yet on Yule night, when Lord Wilderness challenged me and I decided to embark, it was at the urging of the Order and with its blessings. I thought it… proper… that I should answer in turn to its judgments."

"What you think is… 'proper,' Sturm Brightblade, is not necessarily by the Measure," Boniface remarked, his voice dry and cold. He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands elegantly across his chest. "But we of the council have an interest in what came to pass regarding your journey to the Southern Darkwoods. And so, given these extraordinary circumstances, the Council… indulges your testimony."

"For that I am most grateful," Sturm replied, recovering in the intricate dance of deference and courtesy. "And I might welcome the Lord Boniface to a place upon the High Council, expressing the hope that his appointment was in… happy circumstance."

There was a long pause, in which the three council members glanced uneasily at one another.

"Lord Stephan is elsewhere," Alfred replied. "Be seated."

Sturm looked in puzzlement from face to face, waiting for further tidings of his old friend, for the High Justice's explanation. But Lord Alfred averted his glance, leaning to whisper something in the ear of Boniface, who nodded vigorously. Gunthar was the only member of the council who would regard the lad directly. His quick, almost undetectable wink was reassuring, though it revealed nothing.

Sturm cleared his throat. "I suppose," he began, "that I should begin with my news of Vertumnus."

And he told it all, or almost all, trusting in the truth and the judgment of at least two who sat on the council. He told how he had ventured through the maze of a ghostly castle, through bandits and hostile villagers into a wood of illusions, guarded by mythical creatures and mysterious, deceptive paths.