spring shearing. Lina the weaver had already turned it to fabric, enough so that they wouldn't have to buy more during the cold months. Tate's plan for a self-sufficient community was becoming a reality even more quickly than he'd hoped. Still, there was much to be done before the first snowfall.
The Knight of the Crown dreaded the approaching winter, and not only from the standpoint of preparations; Sir Tate Sekforde hated the cold. It seemed to bury itself in his bones on the first frigid day and stay until buds returned to the trees. Winter would undoubtedly seem even colder without the centuries-old conveniences of the family castle back in Solamnia. Tate could just see his stuffy younger brother Rupport, feet propped on a hassock before a roaring fire in the family's private apartments, thick tapestries covering the cold stone walls of Castle DeHodge.
You have no business envying Rupport, Tate scolded him shy;self. You gave up your claim as eldest son of your own accord. Truly, envy was not what Tate felt for the brother who'd been so ashamed of their father's common heritage that he'd taken their mother's maiden surname, DeHodge. Sir Rupport DeHodge. Even his name sounded pompous.
It was Tate's opinion that knights like Rupport had caused the decline of the order. Rupport had inherited his super shy;cilious nature from their mother, whose noble family's his shy;tory with the knighthood could be traced all the way back to Vinas Solamnus. Thirty years ago, the DeHodge family's for shy;tunes had declined beyond their ability to deny it. The Cata shy;clysm had caused less physical damage to their castle near the High Clerist's Tower than the social aftershocks to their finances. An only child, Cilia DeHodge had reluctantly agreed to an arranged marriage to a wealthy merchant from downriver at Jansburg, for whom she felt nothing but contempt.
Gedeon Sekforde was a kindly, street-smart man who loved his wife despite her many faults, not the least of which was the disdain for him she never bothered to hide. In exchange for restoring her family's lands with his merchant money, Cilia bore him two sons. While Cilia DeHodge Sek shy;forde pushed her sons toward the knighthood, Gedeon Sek shy;forde gave them the freedom to choose whatever occupation they wished. Though both embraced the knighthood, their reasons were very, very different. Rupport read his own intolerance and bigotry into the writings of the Measure and espoused them as his knightly goals.
Tate read the voluminous set of laws that defined the term honor and saw obedience to the spirit of the laws as the chief goal of the knighthood. It was Gedeon Sekforde who encour shy;aged Tate to read between the lines of the Measure when his elder son would question the accuracy of the younger7 s inter shy;pretations. When Gedeon died, Cilia and Rupport's unfeeling snobbishness, not an uncommon trait among mem shy;bers of the knighthood, became unbearable to Tate. To escape the prevailing attitudes in Solamnia and in hopes that the frontier would allow for freethinking, Tate formally renounced his claim to the family estates and signed on with Stippling's expedition.
Not a month out of Solamnia, however, the venerable Knight of the Rose's party had been ambushed by ogres and mercenaries in a pass through the northern Khalkists. Tate alone had survived. Burned, his leg injured, he had stumbled and crawled his way to the village of Styx. Giving himself just one day to rest, he bought a horse and headed straight shy;away for the High Clerist's Tower back in Solamnia to report the deaths. And to apply for entry into the next level of knighthood, the Order of the Sword. He knew just what quest he would be assigned: to complete Stippling's mission of establishing a Solamnic outpost at Lamesh.
On the return trip, the Knight of the Crown had had a lot of time to think. The clerical spells that only Knights of the Sword received through prayer would certainly be useful, especially if ever Tate were in a situation like the ambush again. What was more, his reasons for joining Stippling's troop had not changed; he had no wish to settle in Solamnia. The High Clerist and the Knightly Council had not been keen at first to agree to such a monumental quest by so young a knight. A number of particularly arrogant knights, mentors of Rupport's no doubt, had even questioned Tate's bravery, since he'd had the audacity to survive. Tate had wondered more than once if the staid old Council of Knights hadn't ulti shy;mately agreed to his request simply to brush him off, pre shy;suming that he would fail. In a land so remote that it didn't even bear a regional name, news of a Crown Knight's defeat would not tarnish the knighthood in Solamnia. Tate shook away the aggravating reflection. Unkind thoughts were not allowed on holy days either.
He remembered his sticky bun. Tate's mouth was open wide around the sugared tidbit when Sir Wolter Heding's voice boomed behind him.
'Ah, ah, ahhh!' the old knight scolded in singsong. 'You weren't about to eat that, were you, lad?'
'I was thinking about it, yes.'
Sir Wolter came to stand before him. He was a large man by anyone's standards, slightly corpulent, with a hooked nose and a strong jaw that was usually covered with stubble. 'A candidate for Sword Knight eating on his holy day? Tsk, tsk, lad.'
'Thaf s 'Sir Lad/ to you.' Tate's mouth was scowling, but his brown eyes were smiling as he handed over the sticky bun. To Tate's annoyance, his sponsor in the knighthood popped the bun into his own mouth.
'Ha! That'll be the day!' chortled Sir Wolter over the bun. 'You may be lord knight of the castle because of your quest, but I still outrank you by-'
'Centuries,' filled in Tate. 'Yes, I know, you knew Vinas Solamnus.'
'And don't you forget it,' laughed Wolter, poking his young friend in the chest.
'Not for a moment, Wolter.' Neither would Tate forget that Sir Wolter Heding was likely the reason the Knightly Council had finally agreed to let him undertake Stippling's assignment as his quest.
Sir Wolter had sponsored Tate as a squire. Since Tate's own father had not been a knight and Wolter had no children of his own, they formed an unusually tight bond. The elder knight had taught Tate everything he knew about knightly behavior and endeavor: horsemanship, weapons, archery, wrestling, hunting, fieldcraft, even teamwork. When Tate signed on with Stippling, Sir Wolter alone had understood his reasons for leaving Solamnia. When Tate returned after the ambush, Wolter had spoken up for the young man. The elder knight recounted an endless list of Tate's acts of courage, feats of strength, and skill.
In the end, the council had been swayed only when Wolter volunteered to accompany young Sekforde and act as wit shy;ness. The elder Knight of the Rose had long ago earned the right to sit hearthside and recount tales of bravery to children. He was the kind of knight Tate aspired to be, embracing the intent, not the letter, of the Oath and the Mea shy;sure. Sir Wolter's advice was infrequent but insightful, and always relayed in private, in respect to Tate's authority.
'Speaking of forgetting,' Wolter said with bushy eye shy;brows raised, 'I didn't see you at morning worship.' Wolter eyed Tate's attire. 'Hadn't you better get your dandified self down there and pay Kiri-Jolith his due?'
Tate colored, looking properly chastised. 'I stopped for a brief moment to enjoy the good weather and lost track of time.'
Wolter pushed him toward the steps. 'I'll come and tell you when three hours have passed.' He winked. 'Just in case you get equally absorbed by your prayers.' The old knight knew how difficult Tate found it to meditate for an entire day, especially with the castle in so much need of attention.
'Get you gone,' Wolter said more kindly. 'The meditation is as important to your quest as anything else. I'll keep an eye on things, don't you worry.'
Tate clambered down the circular tower steps. He passed by the blacksmith's shop, forge always glowing to meet the constant demands of the craftsmen. He saluted the two sen shy;tries at the gate house, though he didn't know their names, or those of many of the younger knights.
The temple to Kiri-Jolith was defined more by function than decor. In reality it was a walled-off section of the first lord knight's once-sumptuous apartments. Long ago stripped of its riches, it now contained just six rows of hard wooden benches and a small altar, decorated only with the god's bison head symbol. The room was always cold and dark, lit by a single candle, which was meant to aid concentration.
The temple was empty now as well. Tate slipped inside and onto the wooden bench nearest the altar. He was glad for the privacy, since it allowed him to pray aloud and thus remain focused. Tate cleared his throat awkwardly.
'Kiri-Jolith, Sword of Justice, hear my call. Guide this humble knight in his quest for honor and justice. Help him to see grievous wrongs and right them. Let him never stray from the path of obedience. Keep his will and his sword arm strong in your service.'
Tate chanted the lines over and over. He envied those knights who could simply meditate, free-form, for hours on end. He was not gifted with profound words or thoughts. Tate fancied himself a man of action.
The knight was reciting the prayer for the one hundred thirty-seventh time when shouts in the courtyard
