Роджер Мур - The Reign of Istar

Arryl Tremaine stepped into the common room of Timon’s Folly, the inn where he was staying, and immediately noted the eyes that fixed on him. He was clad in simple traveling clothes. Those in the inn could not know for certain that he was a Knight of Solamnia, but they could mark him as a foreigner. That in itself brought attention enough. Had he not prudently decided to leave his armor back in his room, the rest of the patrons would not have pretended that they were looking anywhere but at him.

Ignoring the others, he marched toward the innkeeper, a heavy, bustling man named Brek. The innkeeper was the only one to give him any sort of greeting, likely because he felt a kinship with the young knight. Brek’s grandfather had been the Timon whose folly had earned the inn its name—and likewise drove the family to leave Solamnia. Timon had been a Knight of the Sword, like Tremaine.

Tremaine was of the opinion that Timon’s line had grown much too soft in only two generations.

“Good evening, Sir Tremaine,” the man said in a voice that carried well. Now all the patrons looked up.

“Master Brek.” Arryl Tremaine’s own voice was low and just a hint sharp at the moment. “I have asked you to not use my title.”

Solamnic Knights were a rare sight in the land of Istar, much less the holy city of the same name. Arryl, coming from the more secluded southwest of his own country, had never truly understood why. Both the knighthood and the Kingpriest—he who was ruler of Istar—served the same lord, the god of light and goodness, Paladine. Once compatible, the two servants no longer seemed to be able to work side by side. There were rumors that the church had grown jealous of the knights’ power, and the knights jealous of the church’s wealth. A Tremaine never bent low enough to believe such rabble-rousing. The House of Tremaine might have seen better days, but the pride of the family was still very much in flower. The young knight had come to Istar three days earlier to learn the truth.

“My apologies, Master Tremaine. Have you decided to take your meal here? We’ve not seen you since you arrived. My wife and daughters fear you find something amiss with their cooking.”

Arryl had no desire to talk about either food or the innkeeper’s family, especially where Master Brek’s daughters were concerned. Like many a woman, they were taken with the young knight’s handsome, albeit cool, visage and his tall, well-honed form. Arryl in no way encouraged them and, in point of fact, found the thought of mixing base desires with his holy trek to Istar sacrilegious.

“I have come merely to ask some information of you before I retire for the day.”

“So early? It is barely dark, Master.” Brek thought the knight a little odd. It was clear that the innkeeper either had forgotten or had never been told by his grandfather about the daily rituals of a Solamnic Knight.

Arryl frowned. He wanted answers, not more questions about his personal habits. “I saw a man arrested by the city guard, a man who had simply been standing by his cart and selling fruit. I have made purchases myself from him in the past day. The soldiers gave no reason for his arrest, something unheard of in my country. He was chained and dragged—”

“I’m certain there was a proper reason for it, Master Tremaine,” Brek interrupted quickly. His smile suddenly seemed strained. “Will you be staying for the Games, Master? Rumor has it that there will be something special going on this time. Some say the Kingpriest himself will attend!”

“I do not believe in these so-called Games. And I’ve seen enough of the Kingpriest, thank you.” Everywhere Tremaine wandered through the vast city, with its tall white towers and extravagantly gilded temples, he saw the benevolent image of the holy monarch smiling down at him. The many majestic banners, which had initially reminded Tremaine of his training days at Vingaard Keep, all bore a stylized profile of the Kingpriest. Sculpted faces, like the one that hung high on the wall behind Master Brek, invoked a frozen blessing on the knight.

Worse yet were the statues, especially the one portraying the Kingpriest holding a smiling baby in one hand and a writhing, many-headed snake in the other. The snake was some artist’s interpretation of the dark goddess Takhisis, Paladine’s eternal nemesis. Arryl was outraged. All knew that Huma, a Knight of Solamnia, had defeated the Dragonqueen! Huma had invoked the aid of the gods—Paladine—not the Kingpriest!

As for Paladine, the god for whom Istar had originally been erected, he was represented, but not nearly as often as the master cleric. In fact, many of Paladine’s tributes had him standing shoulder to shoulder with the Kingpriest, as though they were equals!

“Holy Istar seems more concerned with the greater glory of the servant than it does of the one who is his master,” said Arryl sternly.

Brek paled, cast a darting glance sideways at three men seated in a booth. “If you’ll be excusing me, Sir … Master Tremaine, I–I must be about helping my wife.” Master Brek was gone before the knight drew another breath. Apparently speed was not one of the traits diluted by two generations of sloth.

Shrugging, Arryl turned and headed for the stairs leading to his room. He had much to think about. The pilgrimage to holy Istar had been a great disappointment. Tremaine hoped that his evening prayers would give him the answers he needed.

The knight had taken no more than a dozen steps when a voice from a comer table asked dryly, “Could you spare us a moment, Sir Knight?”

Arryl would have declined, then he noted the silver-and-white robes worn by the three men.

They were clerics of the Order of Paladine. Arryl acknowledged their presence with a polite nod. “Good evening to you, brothers.”

“May the blessings of the Kingpriest be upon you, brother,” responded the smallest of the trio. His companions said nothing, merely nodded. It was clear that the one in the middle was the senior. “Am I correct? Do we have the honor of addressing one of our Solamnic brethren?”

The two acolytes, for that was what they must be, looked more like soldiers than priests. Of course, the Order of Paladine contained capable fighters, even if they were forbidden to use blades. They fought with blunt weapons, such as maces, like the ones these two had resting on the table. Arryl suspected that these two acted as bodyguards for the third, which said something for his authority and power.

Not that he looked all that powerful. The priest was thin, with slightly hunched shoulders. His face was long and narrow and reminded Arryl of a rat. Nevertheless, the man was a holy brother.

“I am Arryl Tremaine, Knight of the Sword,” he answered politely.

“As I thought. A Solamnic warrior.” The cleric clasped both hands together. Arryl noted that the priest wore thin leather gloves that matched the cleric’s robes. The index fingers pressed tight, forming a steeple. The knight wondered if there was something wrong with the man’s hands, that he should hide them under gloves. The weather was certainly not cold enough to make protection desirable. “Forgive me for not introducing myself,” said the cleric. “I am Brother Gurim.”