Roland Green: Knights of the Rose

“I cannot urge the Grand Master to embattle the knights on behalf of Istar’s tax-gathering expedition,” Marod said briskly. “But you may well be right, that we need two parties watching what goes on in Silvanesti.

“Pirvan and his companions are riding in from the north, across the desert. It might be wise for you to lead a band, equally well chosen and fitted to fight or spy, in from the south or west.”

“Landing on the coast would have us lost in days and arrow-riddled within weeks, without learning any secrets, elven or Istarian,” Lewin said. “Your pardon if this seems a lack of courage, but I think our aim is to have one or even both parties return with what they have learned.”

“Exactly so.”

“Then I can ride to Bloten Keep with a few companions, take on more volunteers and supplies there by your command, and march onward into Silvanesti. That far south, the mountains offer ways other than the defended passes.”

Known only to local guides, thought Marod, most of whom were half-elven and wholly on the side of the Silvanesti, of course. But learning that would be a part of Lewin’s education, even if it was hardly knowledge required by the Oath and Measure.

“I can order up men, mounts, and supplies in ample quantities without question,” Marod said, rising cautiously and wincing as his weight came on the bad leg. “Let me know by nightfall what you will require, and you can be on the road at dawn of the day after tomorrow.”

“You are generous, Sir Marod. I only hope I can repay this in some way.”

“Add to your own reputation and brighten the honor of the knights, and that will be enough.” They gripped hands, and Lewin was gone.

Even better, thought Marod, prove that I did not misjudge you many years ago, and that you have not gone over to those who see the Silvanesti as sheep to be sheared.

Sir Marod knew that he was fighting that rearguard battle against the years that every man, knight or no, eventually loses. But he wanted to close his eyes for the last time without too many thoughts of how great a fool he had been.

Lady Eskaia’s soap was perfumed; her bathwater was not. The house could still afford the best soap; it could not afford perfume by the jug.

The mirror above the bath-one of Jemar’s surprise gifts to her-showed a woman who could have claimed many fewer years than her actual forty. The silver in her hair was coming in with such dignity that she allowed it free rein, but otherwise the years and five children had taken only a light toll on her.

Eskaia twisted a knob; the soapy water gurgled down the drain, and an amazing amount of muzzy-headedness seemed to go with it. She pulled the chain and let sun-warmed rainwater wash her clean, combing her fingers through her long hair to be sure the water reached her scalp.

At last she was clean and the tub refilled. She wrapped her hair in one towel, dried her hands and forearms on another, and pulled the bath tray toward her. It held a pen in a gilded holder, a crystal pot of ink, and several sheets of the lightest parchment.

Eskaia dipped the pen and began to write.

Dear Friends ,

It is too long since I have written, and without the excuse of any grief or trouble that has left me no time to write. We are all well. Indeed, I just saw Torvik sail off on what I believe is his tenth voyage. Soon there will be a seasoned sailor where once stood the boy I remember falling asleep on Haimya’s lap .

I will force the affairs of House Jemar to let me write more often. However, I despair of ever finding time to travel all the way to Tirabot, particularly with the children whom you have not seen in, I think, some three years .

I hope the knights and your manor will prove more lenient. I would much like to see Gerik and my namesake before he vanishes into the maw of the knights and she chooses husband or sword-or, if she is as lucky as her mother, both. Also, there is Rubina, whom I doubt I would recognize now - I remember what the years between seven and ten did to my own children .

Eskaia blinked away tears; one thing those years had done was take her son Roskas. The trees around his grave were tall enough to shade it now, but the memory of the day they brought him from the pond was still painful, like an old wound scarred over on the outside but unhealed within.

Now would come the harder part of the letter, not to mention the words more dangerous for strange eyes to see.

I would also like to speak to you privately of how matters fare in Istar. Istar may only call itself the world, but when Istar sneezes, very surely the world reaches for a handkerchief .

Is it true that the present kingpriest is himself honorable and virtuous, but hemmed round by the servants of his predecessor? One preserves silence, even in a letter, about some matters. But nonhuman folk who have found safer homes in Vuinlod than elsewhere say that hatred of nonhumans yet grows with each passing month .

Is that the reason behind this rumor of a campaign in Silvanesti, or do the elves really owe Istar more than the lords of the Mighty City can afford to ignore? Here in Vuinlod we seem to be both far from truth and far from danger .

Indeed, it has been so long since we needed defense against pirates from the sea or bandits from the land that the watch is all middle-aged folk, some fat and lazy, and few of them finished fighters. In even a short time, Pirvan, Haimya, or Darin-even Gerik or Eskaia-could teach them much that they have either forgotten or never learned .

Eskaia looked back at the last three paragraphs and sighed. She wished that she could be more explicit, that she could say, “Bare is a brotherless back, and with you here in Vuinlod, we could guard each other’s.”

But the old sea barbarian saying was only half of the truth. Pirvan and Haimya did not need much guarding by her, but they did need to be farther from Istar, from its intrigues and ambitious lords, and from kingpriests who might not do evil themselves but could not restrain it in others.

They needed this. One day the Swordsheath Scroll would not be enough to keep the peace between Istar and Solamnia. Istar would, in time, issue a dishonorable command, and the knights would have to either refuse and ignite conflict, or yield, lose honor, and find that all of Istar’s enemies were theirs.

Pirvan would have enough trouble in the first case, he and any knight within reach of Istar’s army. Tirabot was a fortified manor, not a keep; it would not take siege engines to break in and reduce it to ghost-haunted ruins, like the old castle.

In the second case, Pirvan would be a walking dead man. Even a command from the knights would not turn him to dishonor or evil. Then he would have blood enemies among his own comrades.

Haimya and Darin would never desert him; likewise Gerik. The four would be doomed. But Eskaia, Rubina, the household-they deserved a hope of safety.

But how did one tell a Knight of Solamnia to turn his back on his enemies even long enough for that?

One did not tell; one hinted-and prayed.

Eskaia read the letter again. She had done enough hinting, and she would pray later, at night, in her chambers. For now-

She rang the bell for the maids, and called, “I need wax and a message pouch.”

Then she wrote hastily:

If you cannot find the time to indulge your curiosity about Vuinlod, I may yet make time to indulge mine about Tirabot. May it and you fare well in the gods’ keeping until that time comes .

Eskaia

She had just time to blot and fold the parchments before the maids stampeded in.

His name was Hawkbrother, and he was the fourth son of Redthorn, chief of the Gryphon clan of the desert barbarians. In Redthorn’s time, at least, the many barbarian clans had called themselves the Free Riders, even when the wells ran low and they had to lead their horses to be sure of having them alive when the winter rains came.