The Oath and the Measure

'So he's as powerful as they say, this Vertumnus,' Alfred said quietly in the restored silence of the room. 'That is all the more troubling, especially when I consider what lies ahead for the boy.'

All eyes returned to Sturm. He wished he could have joined the sentries in their retreat, but he held his breath and fought down the fear.

'I believe,' the High Justice began, 'that you have been singled out for a purpose.'

'What kind of purpose?' Sturm asked.

'If you've been listening, lad, you've probably gathered that we're no closer to answering that than you are,' Stephan explained with a smile. 'All we know is that something in the music and the mockery and the flyting was such that it fell to you to bear sword against Lord Wilderness and to defeat him in combat, only to find that he is the victor while the game is not over. It's a riddle, to be certain.'

'And the answer?' prompted Sturm.

'I believe he gave you the answer,' Lord Alfred replied. 'That on the first day of spring you-and you alone-are to meet him in his stronghold amid the Southern Darkwoods. There apparently the two of you shall settle this issue, as the Green Man said, 'sword to sword, knight to knight, man to man.' 'Tis written full clear that the Measure of the Sword lies 'in accepting the challenge of combat for the honor of the Knighthood.''

Sturm swallowed hard and slipped his cold hands under his robe. The Knights regarded him grimly, uncertain whether a death warrant lay in Lord Alfred's pronouncements.

'One thing is certain, lad,' Boniface said. 'You've been called to a challenge.'

'And I accept, Lord Boniface,' Sturm said bravely. He stood, but his legs wobbled. Swiftly Lord Gunthar moved to steady him with a strong hand.

'But you are not a Knight, Sturm,' Lord Stephan said. 'Not yet, that is. And though the Oath and Measure run in your blood, perhaps you are not bound to them.'

'And yet,' Lord Boniface insisted softly, 'you are a Brightblade.' He leaned toward Sturm, his blue eyes searching and raking at the heart of the boy.

Sturm sat again, this time clumsily. He covered his face with his hands. Again the strange banquet played through his recollection, and the edges of his memory were blurred, uncertain. Vertumnus's face was vague when he tried to recall it, as were the melodies, the alien tunes that only an hour ago Sturm thought he would never forget.

What was certain in this? He remembered only the challenge clearly. That challenge was certain-as certain as the Oath and Measure, by which a Knight was bound to accept such challenges.

'Lord Stephan is right when he says I am not yet part of the Order,' Sturm began, his eyes fixed on the library shelves beyond the Knights. The books seemed to dance in the dim light, green bound and mocking. 'And yet I am tied to the Oath by heritage. It's… it's almost as if it does run in my blood. And if that's the case-if it's something that connects me to my father, like Vertumnus said, or I thought I heard him say- then I want to follow it.'

Alfred nodded, the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. Gunthar and Stephan were silent and grave, while Lord Boniface Crownguard looked away.

Sturm cleared his throat. 'I suppose things like rules and oaths are… even stronger when you can do otherwise but you choose to follow them because,… because…'

He wasn't really sure why. He stood again, and then Lord Alfred slipped from the room, returning at once with the great sword Gabbatha, said once to grace the belt of Vinas Solamnus. It was the sword of justice, a shimmering, two-edged broadsword, its hilt carefully carved in the likeness of a kingfisher, the golden wings spread to form the cross-piece. So there, before the most powerful Knights of the Order, Sturm set his hand to Gabbatha and swore a binding oath that he would take up the challenge of Lord Vertumnus, the druid or wizard or renegade knight.

When the words were said and the oath was sealed, Lord Stephan, now abstract and pensive, stalked from the room at once, muttering something about impossible odds. As the old Knight opened the door, the room outside echoed with the sound of axe against wood.

Sturm shifted from foot to foot, looking up at the older men, awaiting advice, instruction, orders.

'Very well,' Lord Alfred breathed. 'Very… well.' It was as if he had lost something.

'Go within a fortnight, Sturm,' Lord Boniface urged. 'Prompt departure will give you… time to travel unfamiliar country. If we are to believe Lord Wilderness, time is of the essence in this challenge.'

'I remember,' Sturm said bleakly. ' 'Appointed place and appointed time.''

'But you should prepare yourself first, Sturm,' Gunthar urged indecisively.

'That is true,' Alfred agreed eagerly. 'Choose a horse from the liveries-that is, a horse within reason. You are, after all, a son of the Order, and we shall do our utmost to equip you and train you and ready you for the spring and the Southern Darkwoods.'

Sturm nodded. The evening had dwindled to halfhearted promises. It was as though the Knights knew it, and knew that a still darker issue lurked beneath the promises.

The boy had been wounded, after all. Or so he maintained, and sharp-eyed old Stephan Peres confirmed it. And in spring, Lord Wilderness had threatened, the wound would come due.

It was all chaotic, this business before them, all grim and unforeseeable in its mystery.

Gunthar sidled to a shelf and thumbed through a book while Alfred recited the equipment Sturm would need, where it was available, and in what quantity or quality the Order was willing to provide it. Sturm continued to nod and thank the High Justice, but his eyes were distant and his thoughts elsewhere.

So they left him, still nodding and quietly thinking, standing in the midst of the library, all of Solamnic history surrounding him, leaning in on him from atop the dusty and indifferent shelves. Lord Boniface was the last out the door-Angriff's good friend, his rival in swordsmanship.

'I'm proud of you, lad,' he said, and turned swiftly away, his face masked by the shadows of the dimly lit room.

'Thank you,' Sturm breathed again, and the door closed behind all of them, leaving him alone with his fear and musing.

'How do you fight a mystery?' Sturm asked aloud. 'How do you even follow one?' He turned and faced the darkened stained glass window.

Beyond the glass lay only the faintest of lights-the sunrise oblique in the east, scarcely visible because of the baffling mountains, the vaulting walls, and the simple fact that the window faced west. Behind the yellow of the harp and the white sphere of Solinari in the corner of the window, the lad could see sharp, wavering shadows. It was a sprig of holly, grown up against the wall outside, trembling in the breeze of the winter morning.

Chapter 3

Inns and Remembrances

The twins had warned him, that autumn night at the Inn of the Last Home, in the week before he saddled Luin and rode away from Solace into the forbidden north.

It was a last night of reunions and farewells as the three of them sat over cold tea and guttering candles at the long table by the trunk of the enormous vallenwood tree that rose through the floor of the inn. Otik the innkeeper, solicitous as ever, cleared the last of the glass and crockery while the three companions drank absently, staring across the table at each other over the dodging lights.

Sturm felt ill-suited in his mourning gray cape and robes, especially among his old friends. He wondered if that was part of bereavement-that after the six months of gray and fasting and confinement, you were supposed to weary of it all, to yearn for setting aside the robes and moving to other things. Times were when he still missed his mother grievously, but already the face of Ilys Brightblade was blurred in his memory, and he had to tell himself the color of her eyes.

But the story she had told him was fresh in remembering, down to the smallest details. Recounted on her deathbed, before the fever gave way to delusions and unconsciousness, it was a tale that would send him from Solace.