evil thoughts and prevent them from becoming evil deeds, thereby ensuring that Good will once again reign supreme in a land where virtuous, righteous and, above all, moral people wish to live without fear of the forces of Evil and its denizens.
There was silence in the room for a long time.
Finally, a single hand rose up from the crowd. It was a hand belonging to the elderly mage. 'But how will we be able to detect evil thoughts, let alone control them?'
The Kingpriest smiled. 'Ah, a very good question, but one that is simply answered. You forget that we stand for the cause of Good and with it on our side, anything is possible.'
'Are you saying we shall use magic and spells to carry out this edict, to read the minds of the citizens of Istar?'
'Some would call it magic. Some others would call it spellcasting,' answered the Kingpriest. 'But those terms are used by wizards and sorcerers. You, loyal clerics and faithful followers, will be able to look into the minds of the people of Istar and read their thoughts through the power of a divine invocation. As a result, you will be able to go about your task safe and secure in the knowledge that you have been empowered to do so by the highest possible authority.'
The followers looked uneasy, most likely unsure what had been meant by the 'highest possible authority' given that the Kingpriest himself was the head of the clergy.
'Such magnificent power can not be handed down by those who simply perform magic. Such strength of conviction does not come from those who merely practice the incantation of spells.'
A pause.
'It comes from, and is, quite simply, the will of the gods.'
Chapter 4
'It was my tree And he had no right to cut it down!' said Vin Dowell, a tall wiry farmer from Tyrell, a small village to the west of Dargaard
Keep located on the eastern bank of the Vingaard River.
'I didn't cut it down, I only trimmed the branches that were hanging over my land,' said Thorn Tregaard, a short squat man with a barrel-shaped belly, long white hair and a matching tapered, gray-white beard.
As the two men blathered on, Soth rolled his eyes and shifted nervously in his high-backed throne chair, searching for that always elusive comfortable position in which to sit. It was the morning of Palast, the one day each week he set aside for the settling of land claims and similar disputes among the people of Knightlund. Sometimes the disputes were of interest to Soth, such as the ones involving some type of crime, the honor of a woman, or a chivalric sort of challenge between two parties.
But this, this was a squabble between two ducking hens.
'Which you had absolutely no right to do,' said Dowell.
'A man's tree is a man's tree. The next thing you'll be doing is cutting down my fence because you don't like the shadow it casts upon your land.'
'I'd never damage a fence. And certainly not one that serves well as a border between myself and the likes of you!'
Soth leaned forward and held his head in his hands.
'Not to worry, you wouldn't catch me on that weed infested patch of soil you dare to call a farm.' Dowell crossed his arms and turned up his nose in disgust.
'Oh, so my side of the fence is good enough for your tree, but not good enough for you, eh?' Tregaard's face was turning a deep shade of red and his breath was growing deeper and more rapid.
The two men moved closer, rolling up their sleeves in preparation for a fight.
Soth had seen and heard just about as much as he could stand. Although he was mildly interested in seeing which of the two men would emerge the victor of a fist-fight- Dowell having the longer reach, Tregaard possessing a decided weight advantage-he couldn't, in good conscience, allow matters to get out of hand.
'Enough!' he cried, his booming voice shocking the two farmers into silence. When he had their attention, Soth sat up straight in his chair and looked the taller of the two farmers straight in the eye. 'Now, Vin
Dowell, were some of your tree's branches hanging over onto Tregaard's land?'
The farmer maintained eye contact with Soth for several seconds, then looked away. 'Yes, milord.' The words were whispered, a mere shadow of the voice he'd used seconds before on his fellow farmer.
'And you. Thorn Tregaard, cut down the tree or just the branches?'
Tregaard was quick to answer. 'Just the branches, milord.'
'And what of the fruit on those branches?'
'They're in his cold storage room-' barked Dowell.
Soth held up his hand to silence the man.
'Well?' Soth prodded Tregaard.
'As he said, they are in my cold storage.' 'I see,' said Soth, pausing a moment to consider the situation.
The trick to finding a solution acceptable to both parties was to give them the illusion that each of them was coming away the winner. But, how to do that?
'Since the branches were overhanging on Tregaard's land, he was well within his rights to cut the offending branches from the tree.'
Tregaard's face was suddenly brightened by a big selfsatisfied grin.
'However,' continued Soth. 'Because the tree was Dowelts, the branches should be returned to him lest he should want to use them as firewood, and the fruit that was borne by those branches are his property and should be in his cold storage room by the end of the week. By Bakukal to be precise.'
It was Dowell's turn to beam.
'Now, shake hands like gentlemen, and return to Tyrell as good neighbors.' 'Yes milord,' said Dowell.
'Thank you, milord,' said Tregaard.
Both men sounded grateful, but nevertheless defeated.
'Very well, then,' said Soth. 'This matter is closed.'
As spectators and other interested parties began to file out of the throne room, Soth breathed a sigh of relief. His role as Knightlund's chief justice was done for yet another week and the next dreaded Palast morning court was a blessed seven full days away.
Soth had thought he would have enjoyed some of the more mundane aspects of ruling Knightlund, but just two short months after his wedding and ascension to the Order of the Rose, he had come to realize that that simply was not the case. He yearned to draw his sword in battle, to feel its honed edge cutting into the flesh and cracking the bones of his enemies. It was what he had been trained to do. But, here he was a
Knight of Solamnia, a Knight of the Rose, performing the duties of a common clerk.
For a brief moment he admired his father's ability to oversee Knightlund so capably, and so happily, for so many years.
He rose from his throne, wondering what unremarkable task would require his attention that afternoon when suddenly- 'Milord, milord!' The voice was that of the squire stationed as a lookout on the top level of the keep.
Soth remained standing, waiting almost impatiently for the squire to appear. At last he ran into the room, out of breath and obviously excited.
'A rider,' he said, taking a breath. 'A lone rider approaches from the south, at full gallop.'
Soth felt the hair on his arms bristle with anticipation.
Clearly the rider was on a mission of great urgency.
'Is he flying any colors?'
'Red.'
'Prepare to lower the bridge!' he bellowed, his words echoing throughout the keep. Soth followed the squire out of the room and made his way outside, where the rider was bringing his horse to a stop in the center of the
