Roland Green: Knights of the Rose

Her stammering finally seemed to spur Darin into speaking. “That forbid our being wed?”

“Yes. Darin, could you bring yourself to take as your bride a-what I am?”

“I can very easily see my way to wedding the most splendid and lovable woman I have ever known.”

None of the kisses that followed were at all chaste, and the embrace only ended when several dwarves clearing up rubble started making rude remarks. Even then, Rynthala sat on Darin’s lap, her head on his shoulder, until the dwarves started singing.

It was a dwarven wedding song that Rynthala recognized. Her mother had once translated it for her, when she was telling her daughter about the ways of man and woman. It went into considerable detail about the wedding night, and Rynthala thought the dwarf who wrote the words must have been either very lucky or extremely optimistic.

Perhaps that was not altogether unreasonable. Certainly she felt the same way now.

She hoped that her parents’ spirits were not far away and could have seen and heard her and Darin.

The forest was as dark and wet as an underground river or an Istarian sewer, except when lightning flared overhead. Then it became as bright as day-and the crash of thunder battled with the shrill neighing of uneasy horses.

It was Pirvan’s opinion that the scouts might have some trouble finding anything, and much trouble fighting it if they did. The people they sought, however, might well be sitting snug under their cloaks, behind bushes and trees, waiting to leap out and reverse the verdict of the day’s fighting.

They could not do this completely. Migmar’s host had departed Belkuthas in such haste that it had abandoned the siege engines, which the dwarves were busily reducing to firewood and scrap iron. Zephros’s men had even abandoned their camp, leaving everything they had not carried into battle.

Still, two-thirds of the enemy had withdrawn in order, not in rout. They would lick their wounds, move men to fill gaps in hard-pressed companies, then be ready to fight another day. Without having to play nurse to Zephros’s rabble, Migmar’s survivors might still be formidable.

Formidable enough, anyway, that Pirvan had lost his ardor for thrashing about in the wet, wild forest until he learned all about the enemy by encountering them again. He had to be sure they were not lurking close, ready to slip in by darkness and surprise the citadel-

A soft “Ho!” came from ahead. Hawkbrother cantered back-or at least his horse tried to canter on the impossible ground. The Gryphon motioned Pirvan forward.

Dismounting, Pirvan saw what had drawn Hawkbrother’s attention. Hoofprints, of large or heavy-laden horses, moving toward Belkuthas. More reinforcements for Migmar?

The thought of a force of heavy cavalry between him and the battered walls and weary defenders of Belkuthas chilled Pirvan more than the rain.

The rain, however, was slacking off. Pirvan thanked appropriate gods for that small favor, then heard a horse blow. A moment later, two riders pushed their way through a clump of bushes.

Pirvan knew that Rynthala’s archers would have these folk well-covered, so made no sudden moves. As lightning blazed again, he saw that one was a woman in armor and the other a less-accoutered man, both on large Istarian war-horses.

“Are you Sir Pirvan of Tirabot, commander of Belkuthas?” the woman asked.

“I might admit that, if I knew to whom I was admitting it,” Pirvan said. Fatigue nearly tangled his tongue in his own words.

“Pardon. I am Floria Desbarres, high captain of mercenaries in the service of Istar, under the command of Gildas Aurhinius.”

Pirvan felt like holding his breath to make time stop. Aurhinius’s coming certainly meant a decision, but for good or for ill?

“I am Nemyotes, son of Suringar, secretary to Lord Aurhinius,” the man said. Pirvan saw that he combined the spindly limbs of a clerk with the confident seat of a trained warrior. “I am directed by Aurhinius to say that all of the late Carolius Migmar’s men are now under his command and behind his scouting line. There they will stay while you and he negotiate for peace and the safe withdrawal of his men from this land.”

It took Pirvan longer than it should have to realize what the man was saying-what he was offering.

Victory.

Victory too late for too many, but in time to save many more.

Victory leaving Belkuthas unmolested, if it would do the same to Aurhinius’s men. Not that the citadel’s defenders had much power in that matter, but Aurhinius doubtless knew about the Silvanesti host and perhaps dwarves and armed refugees as well.

“You may bear the message,” Pirvan said, “the message-that I will honorably and swiftly meet Gildas Aurhinius, in any suitable place, to discuss those matters.”

Instead of sending a messenger, Nemyotes turned his horse and rode off at a trot. He had a clumsy but efficient seat on his horse.

Pirvan stared at Floria Desbarres. She as the best-known female chief of sell-swords in Istar; Haimya had once served under her. She was also a tall woman with silver-shot brown hair, with something of the air that Haimya might have gained had she remained a sell-sword to her present age.

The rain had almost stopped. Pirvan felt the silence oppress him. “I am Sir Pirvan, as you may have guessed,” he said. “Allow me to introduce Hawkbrother, son of Redthorn of the Gryphons-”

Another horseman trotted into the clearing.

“-and Lady Rynthala-” He stopped before he could say “heiress,” and instead concluded:

“-lady and holder of Belkuthas.”

“Ah,” Desbarres said. “Then your mother is dead, too.”

Rynthala nodded mutely.

“I would like to honor your parents, if I am allowed to,” Desbarres went on. “But Nemyotes had some news that he bade me give you the moment I saw you.

“We overtook some of Zephros’s men who held an elven ranger prisoner among them. He had been tortured. When we demanded his release, they tried to kill him. But, chained though he was, he killed two of them and forced the rest to kill him. We killed five more before we had them in order.”

Rynthala forced speech. “Did-did you learn his name?”

“Tharash. And we had witnesses saying that he had slain Carolius Migmar. I-my lady, are you well?”

Rynthala had thrown her head back and was laughing. Her mouth was so wide open that, had it been raining, the water would have poured into it.

For her sake, though, Pirvan wished it had been still raining. Then no one might have noticed the tears streaming down her cheeks.

It was well into autumn, even on the north coast around Vuinlod. Lady Eskaia met Gildas Aurhinius in the Tapestry Room, where layers of colored wool, linen, and silk not only brightened the long evenings but stood between the chill of the walls and the air she was trying to keep warm.

She listened to Aurhinius’s tale of Pirvan, Haimya, and all who had been with them at Belkuthas, and watched him briskly reduce a full wine jug to an empty one. He seemed to hold it well, however.

“I trust none in Istar will hold it against you, for telling me so much to the dishonor of the Mighty City,” she said at last.

“They may, if they wish. But it will not harm me. I am no longer in the Istarian service. Indeed, my resignation was one condition that they made for not protesting Sir Pirvan’s being elevated to Knight of the Rose.”

“I have not heard that the knights are wont to let others say whom they may honor or not.”

“This time, I think Istar would have tried. So when it was a matter of my leaving a service I no longer enjoyed, or Sir Pirvan’s being denied an honor he had earned thrice over, I took the more honorable course.”