Realms of Valor

Tyveris cringed at the memory of the countless buildings he himself had set ablaze in the days when he had been driven into battle with whips at his back. How many precious books had been consumed in the flames and lost forever?

To atone for that destruction, Tyveris had spent the last decade as part of a small band of adventurers based in Iriaebor, men and women who had done their best to work against tyranny in the Caravan Cities between Waterdeep to the far west and Cormyr to the east. But even then he'd simply been a well-trained swordarm. And when the group disbanded a year ago, Tyveris found he had no purpose.

There was no one to tell him who to fight, or where or when. Alone once more, he discovered that all his good deeds had done nothing to assuage his guilty conscience. Then, in the grips of a dark despair, he came to the abbey's gates on a rainy spring day….

A fierce look crossed Tyveris's face as he banished the memories. He wasn't going to let anyone force him to leave Everard Abbey. Not Loremaster Orven. Not anyone.

A place at the abbey was the one thing Tyveris knew he was still willing to fight for.

He bent his head over the tome once more, content to lose himself in its pages. Twilight dwindled outside the window, and night gathered its ebon mantle about the abbey, secure within its walls on the hill above the moonlit plains.

'Reading dusty old books hardly seems like a proper pastime for a warrior,' a voice said, startling Tyveris. Yellow light flared up as a candle was touched to the wick of an oil lamp.

Tyveris spun around, dreading to see Loremaster Orven behind him. But instead he found himself gazing into the hard gray eyes of an acerbic-looking, harshly thin man. Patriarch Alamric.

Tyveris cleared his throat gruffly. 'No one is a warrior within these walls, Patriarch Alamric,' he rumbled.

'So the abbess is fond of saying,' Alamric said in his sharp voice. 'A pity.'

Tyveris watched Alamric in wary confusion as the skeletal man sat at the table opposite him. He had not had many dealings with the old man since coming to the abbey. Alamric was a patriarch in the Church of Oghma, second at the abbey to only Melisende herself. Yet Tyveris had often had the disconcerting feeling that Alamric was watching him. It appeared that feeling had been justified, for the patriarch now gazed at him intently, interest sparking in his sharp gray eyes.

'Not all who worship Oghma tremble foolishly at the sight of a warrior, like our poor Loremaster Orven,' Alamric went on. His voice had a hissing edge to it, like a knife drawn through silk. Tyveris looked at him dubiously.

'You doubt me, but it is true,' Alamric said with a tight, thin-lipped expression that was more grimace than smile. 'I am a powerful man, Tyveris. There are many in the church who obey my orders. But even so, I admire you. No, I envy you.' His eyes glowed with a strange, fierce light. 'From the time I was young I wanted more than anything to lead others, to let my wisdom and my will be their own. I dreamed of riding into glorious battles, raising my sword in the cause of righteousness.' He paused and sighed deeply. 'But I'm afraid the gods have mocked my pride by granting me this frail form. I've had to content myself with spiritual battles. You are lucky, Tyveris.'

'No,' Tyveris said, shaking his head. 'No, don't envy me, Patriarch. I would give anything to change what I am.' He reverently touched the open book before him. 'This is something far greater than battles or swords.'

Alamric snatched the book up in his bony hand and tossed it carelessly aside, a look of disdain on his severe visage. Tyveris stared at him in shock. 'Knowledge is not the only thing sacred to Oghma! No, there is something even more holy, and that is Truth. Knowledge comes in tomes, but there's only one way to carry Truth to people, and that's by deed.' A ruddy, unwholesome flush came to Alamric's cheeks. He didn't seem to be gazing at Tyveris anymore; instead his eyes were turned to the darkened window as if he saw a glorious vision there, invisible to mundane eyes.

'Unbelievers can cast books aside all too easily,' Alamric went on, his voice chantlike. 'But if we armed our priests, not with parchment scrolls, but with swords, nothing could stand before us in our quest to bring Truth to all the lands of Faerun!'

Tyveris felt a chill run up his spine. 'What 'truth' do you mean, Patriarch?' he dared to ask.

Alamric's gaze bored hotly into Tyveris. 'The Truth. Don't you see? People will no longer need to read books to learn what to think. We will think for them. We will tell them what they must know.'

'There will be people who will resist you,' Tyveris said carefully. 'There always are.'

Alamric waved a hand dismissively. 'Not all souls can be saved, Tyveris. But that's the price we must pay for the benefit of all. Mother Melisende and those like her may not see far enough into the future to realize the great good in this, but there are those in the church who will. I shall be the one to carry the message to them.' He clutched Tyveris's wrist. His fingers felt strangely warm. 'But we will need holy warriors to become the bearers of the Truth. You could be one of the first.'

Tyveris pulled his hand away, rubbing his wrist as if he'd been burned. 'I'm sorry. I don't think I can be … what you want.'

Alamric's exultant expression did not waver. 'Very well, Tyveris. We'll let that stand as your answer-for now. But I have faith that you will soon see the light and join me. I have great faith.'

After Patriarch Alamric left, Tyveris found he had no more heart for reading. He put away the book and made his way to the abbey's stable, where he kept a room in the loft. He lay in the darkness for a long time-even past midnight, by the stars outside the window-but he could not sleep. Alamric's strange words kept echoing in his head.

Finally he threw off his blanket and fumbled about in the dark until he found a stump of a candle. He lit it with a flint and a bit of tinder. A warm golden glow filled the loft.

He dug beneath his bed of hay until he reached the floorboards. One was loose, and he pulled it up to reveal a shadowed recess beneath. He drew out a long object and unwound the thick cloth that covered it. A sword gleamed in the candlelight, sharp and clean. For a time Tyveris stared at the blade, trying to see the faces of those he'd slain, to draw them forth like a magical shield against the patriarch's words. After an hour, he rewrapped the sword and put it away.

He drew another object from the hole-a small jade figurine. Once it had been meant to represent a bird, but its features had been rounded with the wear of his touch. Still, Tyveris remembered the beauty clearly. His sister Tali had carved it for him long ago.

Once he and Tali had been bold youths, always seeking trouble together. When the ships came across the sea to the jungles of Chult, he and his sister had ignored the pleading of their parents. Enticed by tales of riches and strange wonders, they signed on to become warriors in the distant lands to the north.

But they had been deceived.

The siblings had found themselves bound, not for glory, but for slavery. The ship had been a nightmare of foul darkness and disease. Tali had not survived the voyage, and Tyveris had lived only to have shackles clamped on his ankles and a sword thrust into his hand. The jade figurine was all he had left of his sister. Her bright eyes, her brave, sweet smile, were only memories now.

Not all souls can be saved…. Alamric's terrible words burned like poison in his mind. He gripped the figurine tightly in his hand. A single tear, clear as a diamond, touched his dark cheek.

'Must there always be more dying, Tali?' he whispered into the night. There was no answer but silence.

It was a dreary afternoon late in the waning days of autumn when the stranger came to the gates of Everard Abbey.

Tyveris was in the great hall at the time, repairing the crumbling mortar around a window to keep out the chill winds of the coming winter. He heard the crystalline chiming of harness bells and gazed outside. Through the glass he saw a figure clad in a heavy, midnight-blue traveling cloak ride into the courtyard astride a delicate black palfrey. Even as he watched, Mother Melisende and Patriarch Alamric stepped forward to greet the stranger. The mysterious rider lifted two gloved hands to push back the cowl of a heavy traveling cloak.

She was beautiful. Her hair, as dark and glossy as her steed, cascaded over the shoulders of her crimson riding gown. Her pale features were so perfect they seemed almost exotic. The woman must be a noble of some sort, Tyveris thought, and he wondered who she might be.