against the draconian on the banks of the Vingaard, he turned to his antagonist.
'Mushrooms and fairies are less… nightgrown and unbelievable than what I
The hall was ominously silent. A servant's broom rustled over the stairwell outside the door, and an incongruous owl hooted in astonishment somewhere in the eaves of the castle. The Solamnic Lords didn't move, and Sturm thought of Castle di Caela, of its marbled monuments to family and folly, as he told the story anew.
This time he left nothing out. Jack Derry emerged in the tale, with all his unstudied know-how, and the elf maiden Mara in her petulance and music and her odd devotion to a cowardly spider. For the first time, Sturm mentioned the druidess, the name Ragnell stirring old memories on the faces of the council.
But through all his story one name returned again and again, from the moment the door of Castle di Caela closed behind him all the way to the last words of Tivok, the draconian assassin.
Conspirator. Traitor to the Measure.
It was as though the world had stopped. After a minute's silence, in which nothing whatsoever spoke or sounded or even stirred, Lord Alfred cleared his throat.
'These,' he intoned, 'are the most ominous of charges, Master Sturm Brightblade.'
'Charges for which,' burst in Lord Boniface, 'I shall demand satisfaction!'
Angrily the swordsman pushed away from the table, knocking over his chair and scattering paper and leather-bound volumes of the Measure. He drew his sword and stalked to the center of the room, where he turned and faced them all-his accuser and the council members who had heard the story.
'I believe, Lord Alfred,' Boniface announced, his voice quivering with emotion, 'that in the sixteenth volume of the encoded Measure, on the twenty-second page in the third article, it is related that the Order of the Sword, which takes its Measure from affairs of courage and heroics, enjoins all members thereof to accept the challenge of combat for the honor of knighthood. I believe, Lord Alfred, that the honor of knighthood has been impugned.'
Gunthar stood up and walked calmly to Boniface's abandoned chair. He picked up three of the leatherbound volumes that lay on the floor by the table, thumbing through each of them with a dry, ironic smile.
'Sturm Brightblade impugns no Order,' Gunthar corrected, his eyes on the High Justice. 'Instead, he accuses a single Knight-Lord Boniface of Foghaven.'
'Then trial by combat is enjoined,' Boniface argued, turning briskly toward Lord Alfred. 'The Lord Alfred should recall from his recent…
'And yet we settled that through reason and goodwill,' Gunthar insisted.
'Through the blandishments of an old man who walked off into the woods, leaving the Order behind him!' Boniface snarled. All eyes turned uneasily to the legendary swordsman, who looked to the rafters of the hall, where doves nested and gurgled. He closed his eyes and seemed to gather himself.
'If you will notice the forty-fifth page of the aforesaid sixteenth volume,' he said, his voice hushed, almost rapturous, 'in the first article, it states unequivocally that trial by combat is the preferable recourse for matters individual between Knight and Knight.'
'Have it one way or the other, Boniface!' Gunthar exclaimed angrily. 'Is Sturm to be judged as a Knight or an un-Ordered lad?'
Lord Alfred thumbed idly through the volume in front of him, his eyes on the glowing mahogany walls, his thoughts entangled and bottomless. Finally he spoke, and even the doves ceased their noises to listen.
'Boniface is correct,' he declared, his voice dry and shaken. 'Trial by combat is the recourse, if but one disputant insists upon it. What remains for Sturm is the choice of
Sturm swallowed hard and shifted on his feet.
'No matter the outcome,' Lord Alfred announced, 'neither charges nor judgment will ever leave this room. Nor will any of us, until those charges are settled, the judgment given according to Oath and Measure and our sacred tradition.'
Lord Boniface smiled. 'I have won the first pass,' he declared.
Lord Gunthar walked to a chest at the far corner of the room and produced the padded wicker swords that would decide the issue. 'You have beaten a green boy at the Barriers,' he said to Boniface through clenched teeth.
The swordsman's back stiffened.
'I am schooling the lad to a demanding Measure, Gunthar Uth Wistan,' Boniface retorted. 'As his father would have it, were he alive.'
'His father would have more,' Lord Gunthar muttered. 'And he would exact it from your skin.'
'By the Measure, Lord Gunthar,' Boniface said, his voice jubilant, taunting. 'By the Measure now and always, and let the swords fall as swords will fall.'
Chapter 24
In the center of the hall, they squared off, the green lad and the legendary swordsman. Sturm hoisted his shield, then rolled the weapon in his hand. The wicker sword was lighter than he had imagined, and it felt assuring, familiar.
The Solamnic trial by combat was an ancient, honorable practice, sanctioned from the Age of Might and the days of Vinas Solamnus. When charges were brought against a Knight of the Order, the man could defend his innocence by sword. Victory assured innocence in the eyes of those present and the Order itself, regardless of the evidence against him; if, however, he were defeated, honor bound him to confess his crime and accept the exacting punishment of the Measure.
Sturm swallowed nervously. It was serious business against a serious swordsman. And yet for a moment, his hopes sprouted. Stranger things had happened in the Order than an upstart catching a champion off balance or nodding.
Stranger things had happened to Sturm himself.
He rocked on his heels, awaiting his fabled opponent.
Slowly, confidently, Boniface put on his white gloves. He lifted the champion's targe he had won twenty years ago at the Barriers. The crossed blades on the shield's face were faded and chipped with the strokes and thrusts of a thousand unsuccessful weapons. Casually the Knight took up the sword he would use, examined it for flaws, and, testing it for balance, spun it in his hand like a strange and magical toy. Scornfully he turned to Sturm, returning the lad's ceremonial salute brusquely, coldly.
'We await your pleasure, Lord Alfred MarKenin,' Boniface announced, and crouched in the ancient Solamnic Address, the stance of swordsmen since the days of Vinas Solamnus. Reluctantly Lord Alfred raised his hand, then lowered it, and in the center of the council hall, the contestants circled one another in ever-decreasing spirals.
Sturm moved first, as everyone knew he would, for patience is slippery in a green hand. He stepped forward and lunged at Boniface, his movements skilled and blindingly quick.
The older Knight snorted, stepped aside, and batted the sword from Sturm's hand, all in a graceful turn as effortless as brushing away a fly. Sturm scrambled after the sword, which came to rest against a dark wall, its hilt extended mockingly toward his hand.
He grabbed the sword and turned about. Boniface laughed and leaned against the long council table, the sword twirling in his hand.
'Angriff Brightblade would be pleased indeed,' he taunted, 'to see his son spread-eagled and groping in the Barriers.'
