response from an outcropping of rock above the cave entrance. As Soth scanned the trees and blisters of granite for some sign of the beasts, another sound came to his ears: music.
Magda half-sang, half-hummed an ancient Vistani bardic song. The death knight caught snatches of the story-a strangely familiar tale of love gained and lost. It was not the fact the gypsy was singing that caught Soth’s attention; he’d been in enough battles, awaited enough tense confrontations during his time as a Knight of Solamnia, to recognize an attempt to calm jangled nerves.
No, it was the tune itself that tugged at the corners of his subconscious. The song insinuated itself into the death knight’s mind and curled up like a cat before the cold hearth of his memories. At this prompting, images buried by hundreds of years of disregard shrugged off their ashes and flared to life. Soth marveled at the memories, even as he attempted to smother them. The images would not be damped, though, and soon he was lost in the past, remembering…
Music filled Dargaard Keep. Five minstrels in the gallery overlooking the large, circular main hall played a light air on dulcimer, horn, flute, and drum. The spritely notes seemed to leap over the railing, down the twin curving stairs running along the walls, then prance around each reveler in the room. Six men and women, attired in their finest silks and brocades, hose and silver-buckled shoes, twirled by pairs. The music twirled with them, then rose higher and higher toward the room’s massive chandelier and vaulted, rose-colored ceiling.
As the dance went on, booming laughter twined with the music. The laughter came from the thirteen renowned knights clustered around a table at the room’s edge. Their hands cupping goblets that were brimming with sweet wine from the vineyards of Solamnia, the men loudly saluted the wedding couple who hosted the revelry. This done, they returned to telling stories of heroic deeds and fair maidens.
The song reached a crescendo, sweeping the dancers in breathless haste around the room, then ended suddenly. The three couples clapped for the minstrels, but their polite appreciation of the musicians was overwhelmed by a burst of loud boasting.
“There was never a man in Solamnia, nay the entire continent of Ansalon, who could best Sir Mikel in a test of wit!” one of the knights shouted. He gestured with his cup to the smiling man on his right. “Why, in Palanthas that night-”
Anger swelled in the breast of one of the dancers. Before the knight could elaborate on his boast, this dancer, Lord Soth, took a single step away from his partner. “My loyal retainers,” Soth proclaimed, his voice silencing the boasts and laughter. “You do a disservice to minstrels who visit us.”
The thirteen knights lowered their wine cups as one. Soth could see the shame in their eyes, though he could not tell if it was feigned or genuine. The men put leather-gloved hands together in gentle applause, but kept their contrite faces upon the man who had pointed out their breach of etiquette.
After a moment, Soth dismissed the minstrels with a wave of his hand. He gave his men the briefest of glances, but they knew from his slight frown that they were to moderate their revelry. Finally, he returned to his lovely partner.
“Sincere apologies, my dear,” Lord Soth said, taking his new wife’s hand. He gazed into her pale blue eyes and ran his fingertips gently across her lily-white cheek. The warmth of her skin made desire stir within him. “My knights sometimes forget themselves. They are quite happy for me, knowing my marriage to you will make this keep a joyful place.” He laughed softly. “Perhaps they celebrate in hopes your fair temper will soften my hand in ruling the lands surrounding Dargaard.”
The elfmaid smiled sweetly. “There is nothing we cannot overcome together, you know.” She nodded her fine-boned chin, and her long golden hair stirred, revealing the daintily pointed ears of a high-born elf. “Perhaps even Paladine, given time-”
“Indeed,” one of the other dancers chimed in, moving to Soth’s side. “Lady Isolde is correct. The great god Paladine, Father of Good, Master of Law, will light your way from this, er, time of tribulation. That you brought me here to officiate over your union is a good step, of course. We of Paladine’s faithful are certain that such a fine knight as yourself will come to see…”
The speaker, a fatuous cleric of little reputation, let his comment trail off and grinned obsequiously when Soth turned his gaze upon him. The knight could feel the tension drawing his mouth into a grim line and draining the happiness from his heart. His desire for his wife fled in the face of boiling anger, a desire to strike the man before him. Soth found it difficult to banish these thoughts of violence, thoughts that were so familiar to him of late.
“Disciple Garath,” the knight murmured, taking his hand from his wife’s grasp, “we value your presence at the ceremony. Yet even your position as celebrant at this wedding does not give you the right to offer comment on our private problems.”
The priest straightened the few wisps of hair remaining on his shining pate and swallowed nervously. His wife, a sour-looking woman twice the age of the young cleric, hurried to prevent her husband from doing any more damage.
“Your Lordship is correct, of course,” she offered. With a mongoose-quick grab, she snatched Garath’s hand. “We are honored to be at this splendid occasion. The musicians are fine, are they not?” Before Soth could answer, she turned to Lady Isolde. “That is a lovely dress, by the way. I understand you made it yourself.”
The elfmaid blushed. “I made do with what we had in the keep. I’m glad you find it pleasing.” She raised her arms, and the gossamer shawl of the snow-white dress wafted gently in response. Isolde gazed down at the floor- length gown, and the slightest veil of sadness crept over her eyes.
Soth gritted his teeth. In Silvanost, the land of Isolde’s people, the wedding gowns of the high-born were strewn with pearls and other precious gems; hers was but a slight imitation of the beautiful garb her sisters and friends would wear upon their wedding days. Soth could see the unhappiness marring her beautiful features as she looked up, and that expression cast a shadow across his own heart.
Wandering to various other subjects, the conversation let the knight and his bride, the priest and his wife, put the tension behind them. The other couple that had joined them in the dance, a minor bureaucrat from the nearby city of Kalaman and his mistress, came to listen to the discussion of hunting and court fashion, but they said little. They were not used to the company of the rich and powerful.
Though Soth remained polite, the inane chatter galled him. These four were the only ones who had responded to his invitation; the other knights, politicians, and merchants from Kalaman and the smaller towns near Dargaard Keep had found any excuse not to attend. Many had not even responded to Soth’s missives.
An hour passed slowly, then the great hall rang with the footsteps of self-importance. Soth, like the others, turned to the spotlessly attired young man who made his way toward the matrimonial gathering. Caradoc was seneschal of Dargaard Keep, the man in charge of the day-to-day operation of the fortress-home. This night he wore a pair of white velvet breeches, high black boots, and a doublet of the finest elven silk. Dwarven-smithed bands of purest gold clasped his wrists, and an ornate medallion proclaimed his office. The servant carried himself with an acquired grace usually denied one of such low birth and spotty education.
Yet the servant’s presence was a slap to the master of Dargaard. From the day Soth had ordered the murder of his first wife, Caradoc had used his knowledge of the crime for blackmail; the Knights’ Council had condemned Soth for suspected involvement in the mysterious disappearance of his wife, but no one could prove any crime- unless Caradoc revealed what he knew. The seneschal was wise enough to limit the freedoms he bought with that knowledge, for Soth would surely kill him if he pushed things too far. Still, he flaunted his position just enough to make Soth uncomfortable.
Caradoc moved to Lord Soth’s side as if unconscious of the attention his entrance had attracted, then asked to speak to the nobleman privately, on a matter of the household. “The knights encamped outside have sent word that the red moon has now risen,” he said meaningfully, when they were apart from the others.
Lord Soth sighed. “Then the feast must end, as we agreed yesterday.” He looked around the room and found concern on all faces, creasing even the unwrinkled brow of his elven wife. He forced as convincing a smile as possible to his lips and gestured broadly. “Our keepers tell us the time for celebrations is at an end.”
A few of the knights rose, but Soth motioned them back to their seats. “We need not man the battlements again-” he turned to his four guests “-until our friends leave. The men of the army outside are to be trusted. They will not harm you.”
A flurry of half-sincere congratulations to the bride and groom followed, then the two couples gathered their cloaks and left, guided by Caradoc to the keep’s main entrance. At the door, the priest of Paladine stopped and uttered a prayer, spreading wide his arms as if to encompass all of Dargaard Keep. The gesture struck Soth as pathetic somehow.
