Lord Gunthar ignored the lad's stammer and seated himself with a rattle and clanking of mail. Carefully he set down the package he carried-a heavy, cumbersome thing wrapped in a blanket. Sturm marveled that the man was walking the halls of the Tower in full battle dress. One would think that the High Clerist's Tower were under siege.
Now Gunthar extended his gauntleted hand, within which lay a fresh green cluster of leaves. 'Do you know them?' he asked curtly.
Sturm shook his head.
'Calvian oak,' the Knight explained laconically. 'You remember the old saying?'
Sturm nodded. He knew rhymes and lore far better than leaves and trees. ' 'Last to green and last to fall,' sir. Or so they say down in Solace.'
'They say the same up here,' Gunthar acknowledged. 'Which is why it's so odd that I carry these leaves in winter, don't you think?'
He regarded Sturm with a calm, unreadable stare.
'I'm supposed to be going,' the lad stated, crouching and picking up the sword. 'That's what it means.' The room seemed warm about him, and faintly through the window, the smell of flowers reached him on the back of a southeasterly breeze.
Chapter 5
That morning, all but the boldest of them averted their eyes.
In the chilly, torchlit corridors, as the night turned and the bell of the third watch tolled deep and lonely, the squires began to stir, preparing their masters' armor and grumbling at the weather and the hour. It was a time that usually bristled with activity and horseplay and gossip, but on this morning, business stopped and conversation hushed as Sturm hastened by on his way to the stables. Silent, almost embarrassed, the Knights and squires averted their gazes. Even the servants, usually indifferent to Solamnic events, murmured as he passed and made signs of warding.
'Faring off a doomed man,' Sturm muttered to himself as he stepped into the great central courtyard, into the dark and the flurried last snows of the season. Derek Crown-guard, long awake on mysterious business, stood a stone's throw from the stable door, shrouded in misted breath and blankets. A brace of Jeoffreys stood with him, his whey-faced partners in misdeed. Aristocrats all, and first families for generations back, the three of them had no morning duties, and Sturm could only guess what would lift them from warm beds and superior dreams.
As Sturm walked into the stable and reached for his saddle, which hung from its customary peg on the wall, he found it tied and tangled with dried vines, decorated bizarrely with branches of evergreen. He heard the laughter from outside and angrily tugged the saddle from the snarl of greenery. The vines snapped, he staggered with the saddle, and a chorus of young voices arose from the dark and the cold.
'Return this man to Huma's breast,' they sang.
'Return this man to Huma's breast,
Beyond the wild, impartial skies,
Grant to him a warrior's rest
And set the last spark of his eyes
Free from the smothering clouds of wars
Upon the torches of the stars…'
Sturm stepped from the stable. Despite himself, he couldn't keep from smiling. After all, the boys were singing a Solamnic funeral song.
They finished the verse and stood scornfully in front of him. Derek Crownguard was flushed and breathless with off-key singing, but he loomed substantial in front of his rival, his leather armor pocked and blemished and dirty, his face in much the same shape. Behind him, two pale, bat-faced Jeoffreys wheezed with malicious laughter.
A crazed thought dawned on Sturm. If he were indeed to fulfill Derek Crownguard's wish and never return from this strange and misbegotten journey, why not leave as his father had left his mourning garrison that legendary night when Castle Brightblade fell? Indeed, why not leave them with laughter?
Suddenly, wildly, Sturm joined in the singing.
'Let the last surge of his breath
Take refuge in the cradling air
Above the dreams of ravens where
Only the hawk remembers death.
Then let his shade to Huma rise
Beyond the wild impartial skies…'
Louder and louder Sturm sang, drowning out first one Jeoffrey, then the other, then the ringleader Derek himself. Puzzled, a little frightened, the squires backed away from the stable, Sturm following them and singing louder still.
Thoroughly unnerved, the Jeoffreys turned and ran, leaving Derek backing through the courtyard alone. Sturm stepped up to him, singing still louder, until lights flickered and shone in the Tower windows as disgruntled Knights were jostled from their sleep by Derek's strangely backfired joke.
Quickly and more quickly the haughty squire backed up, the laughter all vanished from his face now as he looked into the hard eyes of this obviously mad southerner. So intent was Derek Crownguard on his retreat that he didn't notice the young gardener Jack, who had stopped behind him for a moment's rest in the unpleasant duty of hauling a wheelbarrow of manure away from the stables.
It was a true shame he did not notice.
Backward Derek toppled into the bed of the wheelbarrow, but his fall was cushioned by its rather fresh contents. He lurched from the wheelbarrow, stumbled, and fell, and Sturm finished the funeral song in a loud and exultant voice.
Stephan and Gunthar stood on the battlements above the boys, peering down on them and watching the strange morning music come to pass.
'All Brightblade, that one is,' Lord Gunthar said softly to his old friend.
'Not
Sturm smiled again as he saddled his horse. He felt wild and unsettled and strangely free.
Derek had blushed and fumed and backed away, this time very carefully, leaving his first-family arrogance behind him in the snowy courtyard. Lord Boniface had emerged furiously from the steps leading to the Knight's Spur and caught the soiled squire by a clean sleeve.
'How dare you pass the morning in horseplay,' Boniface growled, 'when I've a hundred tasks remaining for you before sunrise!' They trooped away across the courtyard, the Knight berating his squire and battering him with question after obscure question. The gardener Jack covered a gap-toothed smile and pushed the wheelbarrow off after them, humming Sturm's tune ever so quietly.
Sturm chuckled as he watched the procession. No doubt Derek would be doused and then sent to his carpeted chambers now, angry and flustered, rehearsing what he should have done or said when the upstart from Solace turned on him, roaring with laughter and dirges.
'Give him a day, Luin,' Sturm whispered to the mare, who snorted affably in the slowly dispersing dark of the stable. 'Give Derek a day, and let me be far away on the road, and there's no telling what the story will be as to
