He brought out a sheet of parchment, began to copy the lines on his hand onto the scroll.
The person standing outside his door coughed again, a smothered sound, as if he were trying to stifle it.
Irritated, Akar raised his head. 'To the Abyss with you and that coughing! Be off, whoever you are!'
A moment's silence, then the footfalls, the whisper of the robes, continued past the door and down the echoing hall.
Akar paid it no further attention.
Part II
The high cleric frowned, and the lines of his frown extended down his mouth, creasing the numerous chins that rolled over his breast, above the mound — enveloped in rich cloth of gold — that was his belly.
'And this is your final word on the subject, Sir Knight?'
The knight to whom these words were spoken looked troubled, lowered his head to stare unseeing at the still-full chalice he held in his hand. He was a young man. He 'rattled in his armor' as the saying among the knights went, referring to the fact that the youthful body didn't quite fill out the breadth and width of the breastplate that had been his father's. The young man had been accepted into the knighthood early, to take over the responsibilities of that father, who had left this world and its many burdens to his son.
The burdens were heavy ones, to judge by the careworn expression that prematurely aged the young face. But he was not bowed down or crushed beneath them. He raised his eyes, faced the high cleric steadfastly.
'I am sorry, Revered Son, but that is my final word. My father donated generously to the building of the temple in Istar, more generously than he ought, perhaps, but he could not have foreseen the bad times to come.'
A young woman, who had been standing behind the knight's chair, suddenly stepped forward, faced the priest.
'Nor could my father have foreseen that the time would come when the Kingpriest would go back on his sworn word to those who placed him in power!'
The woman's features were so like those of the young knight that many people meeting the two for first time thought they met twin brothers. Both were of equal height and nearly similar in build and weight, for the twins were each other's companion in everything they did, including swordsmanship.
The one marked difference between the two was the woman's sheaf of long, wheat-colored hair that, when she let it down from its tight braid around her head, fell in shining cascades almost to her knees. Her brother's hair, the same color, was kept short, falling to his shoulders.
The sister's beautiful hair and the beginnings of the long moustache of a Solamnic Knight growing upon the brother's upper lip marked the difference in their sexes, but in all else they were alike — moved alike, spoke alike, thought alike.
'Peace, Nikol,' said her brother, reaching out to take hold of his sister's hand.
But she would not be placated. ' 'Give to the temple,' you say. 'Increase the glory of Paladine!' It isn't Paladine's glory you've increased, but your own!'
'Take care how you talk, Daughter,' said the high cleric, glaring at her. 'You will bring down the wrath of the gods.'
'Daughter!' Nikol's skin flushed in anger; her hands clenched. She took another step toward the priest. 'Don't you dare call me daughter! The two people who had the right to speak that dear word to me are dead, my father in the service of your lying Kingpriest, my mother of hardship and overwork.'
The high cleric looked rather alarmed at the sight of the impassioned young woman advancing on him. He glanced uneasily behind him at his two bodyguards, wearing the military insignia of Istar, who stood stalwartly near the door. Reassured and, perhaps reminding himself that he was, after all, a guest in the castle of a Knight of Solamnia, the high cleric turned back to the brother.
'I do not blame you for this unseemly outburst, Sir Knight. If your sister has not learned to speak respectfully to men of the cloth, it is not your fault, but, rather, the fault of the one who has her religious training in his care.'
The high cleric's narrow-eyed gaze shifted to another man in the hall, a man clad in the humble clerical garb of a family healer. He was young, near the same age as the brother and sister, yet the gravity of his expression made him seem older. His robes were not fine, as were those of the visiting clerics of Istar. He wore no jewels on his fingers. His only emblem was a holy symbol, shining with a soft blue light, that hung from a leather thong around his neck. He looked troubled by the high cleric's accusation, but made no comment and bowed his head in silent acknowledgment of the rebuke.
Nikol flushed, glanced at the young healer. 'Do not blame Brother Michael for my sharp tongue, Revered Son of Paladine,' she said, her voice low. 'Forgive my outspokenness, but it is hard to see those left in our care suffer and know that there is little we can do to help them.'
'There is something you can do, Sir Knight,' said the high cleric, talking to the brother, ignoring the sister. 'Turn your lands and estates over to the church. Release your men-at-arms from their service. The time of warring is past. Peace is at hand. All evil has been — or soon will be — eradicated from Ansalon.
'Face reality, Sir Knight. Once the knighthood was necessary. Once we relied upon you and those like you to keep the peace, protect the innocent. But that age is ended. A new age is dawning. The knighthood is outdated, its virtues admirable but strict, rigid, old-fashioned.' The high cleric smiled, and his chins waggled. 'People prefer more modem ways.
'Give your lands to the church. We will take over control, send priests well qualified' — the high cleric cast a scathing glance at Brother Michael — 'to collect the rents and maintain order. You will, of course, be permitted to live in your ancestral manor as caretaker — '
'Caretaker!' The knight rose to his feet. His face was pale, and his hand trembled on the hilt of the sword he wore at his side. 'Caretaker of my father's house! Care taker of a noble estate that has been handed down in honor from father to son for generations! Get out! Get out or, by Paladine, I will — ' He drew the sword halfway from its scabbard.
The high cleric's fat face mottled over with red and white splotches; his eyes bulged. He heaved himself up out of his chair. His guards drew their weapons, and steel rang in the hall.
'Revered Son, allow me to escort you to your carriage.' Brother Michael strode forward, taking care to place his body between that of the outraged knight and the offended priest.
Nicholas, with an effort, restrained himself, slid his sword back into its scabbard. His twin sister stood at his side, her hands clasped over his arm. Brother Michael, talking smoothly, politely, was hastily ushering the priest from the hall. At the door, the high cleric of Istar paused, looked back, his gaze hard and stem.
'You dare threaten a man of the cloth in the name of Paladine? Beware, Sir Knight, lest the wrath of the gods descend upon you!'
'This way, Your Reverence,' said Brother Michael, clamping his hand over the high cleric's fleshy arm.
The healer steered his superior out of the hall, into a corridor that was devoid of furnishing. Only the Yule branches, drooping in the heat, and a few relics of a bygone era — an ancient suit of armor, faded tapestries, a torn and blood-stained standard — decorated it. The high cleric sniffed, glanced around in disdain.
'You see, Brother Michael, how run-down this fine manor has become. The walls crumbling about their ears. It is a shame, a waste. It will not be tolerated. I trust, Brother, that you will counsel these two prideful young persons, make them see the error of their ways.'
Brother Michael folded his hands in the sleeves of his shabby robes, did not answer. His gaze went to the numerous sparkling rings worn on the high cleric's fat fingers. The healer's lips tightened, keeping back words that would have done no good, maybe much harm.
The high cleric leaned near him. 'It would be a pity if the inquisitor was forced to pay a visit to this knight and his sister. Don't you agree, Brother Michael?'
The healer lifted his eyes. 'But they are devout followers — '
The high cleric snorted. 'The church wants these lands, Brother. If the knight truly was a worshiper of Paladine, he would not hesitate to grant all he owns to the Kingpriest. Therefore, since this knight and his
