“This is not the wedding I would have wished for us,” Lord Soth said sincerely, turning to his wife. “The lords and ladies of Kalaman feared to come to a feast in a castle under siege-even if the knights offered a truce for the day. That toadie and his-”
Softly the elfmaid put her fingers to Soth’s lips. Her touch was light, carrying the gentle, alluring fragrance of her perfume. “My darling, your men remain loyal to you. And Caradoc. And the servants who man the stables and the kitchen. I, too, will stand beside you always.” She cast her eyes down and placed a slender hand on her stomach. “Neither can we forget our child, my lord. He will need you and love you most of all.”
The pair stood in silence for a moment, then the wide, main double doors to the hall swung wide. A blast of chill air curled into the room from outside, setting the candles on the chandelier guttering. Broad shadows warped across the floor and walls, and for a moment it seemed as if the light would vanish altogether. Caradoc closed the doors behind him, however, and the candles sputtered back to life.
“The siege party has seen the musicians and your guests across the bridge and to a safe distance from the keep,” the seneschal announced, but not before he straightened his short black hair and settled his chain of office on his chest. “Perhaps it’s time to man the towers and draw up the bridge.”
“All right,” the nobleman said curtly. “Go see to the servants, Caradoc. Make certain the craftsmen have plenty of water stored near their houses in case our foes try to lob burning pitch into the keep again tonight.”
With a flourish the seneschal bowed and went his way. Soth faced his wife one last time. “Good night, my love,” he murmured. Gently he kissed her hand. “I must prepare our defenses, and you need your rest.”
Isolde returned her husband’s kiss before she moved up the stairs to her quarters in the keep’s upper floor. Only when she had been gone for several minutes did Soth order his knights to arm themselves and take their defensive positions. Then he stood alone in the main hall, which now seemed cavernous and lonely. For an instant, the echo of the minstrels’ song wailed ghostly in the back of Soth’s mind. With a frown and a shake of his head, he dismissed it and made his way to the stairs.
At the first landing, he passed a full-length mirror, a gift from the cleric and his wife. Such items were rare and quite expensive, though it didn’t surprise Soth that the priest could afford it. Churchmen, at least those Soth knew, rarely went without luxury.
Looking into the glass, Soth stood as if on military review-his broad shoulders squared, his back straight. His golden hair shone in the light of a nearby torch, framing his face like a heavenly glow. His mustache, long but neatly trimmed, hung to either side of a small, expressive mouth. A doublet of black velvet hugged his muscular frame to his waist, its darkness broken by a fiery red rose embroidered on its breast. This, the symbol of the order of knighthood to which Lord Soth belonged, was the only ornamentation he wore.
Soth was satisfied with the man he saw reflected in the silvered glass. Though the Order had stripped him of his rank and official title, they could not take away his nobility. He was still more worthy of respect than all the hypocrites who had condemned him. Isolde knew that. So did his loyal retainers. Given the chance, he would prove his worth to the rest of Solamnia, too.
Self-satisfied, he resumed his march to the keep’s upper floors. The interior stairs wound in a circle, tighter and narrower as they reached up. Soth was not even winded by the climb. In fact, he barely noticed as the number of steps passed one hundred, then two hundred. The knight’s mind was on other matters, more weighty than purely physical discomfort.
As Soth pushed open the trapdoor marking the stairs’ end, a brisk wind tugged at his mustache and ruffled his golden hair. Ignoring the chill that surely signaled the coming of winter, the knight stepped onto the keep’s highest vantage. From a thin walkway bordered by a low and ornate wrought iron railing, he surveyed his domain.
The main structure of Dargaard was a large, circular castle-more a tower, really-hewn from the mountain that eternally protected it on all but one side. The castle narrowed as it climbed high into the air and tapered to a blunted peak. Stairs circled the exterior of the keep, flowing into landings at strategically important heights, all the way to the top. It was there, at the very pinnacle of Dargaard, that Soth now stood.
The knight watched as servants rolled cartloads of weapons onto the four main terraces that jutted from the keep just above the fourth story, crossing the courtyard high above the straw-and-wood cottages of the castle’s craftsmen. From the terraces, Soth’s knights moved the arrows and spears, torches and barrels of pitch across latticework bridges to the hexagonal outer wall. From there the defensive weapons were being transferred to the twin gatehouses standing sentinel to either side of the massive iron portcullis and iron-strapped wooden doors that barred entry to Dargaard. Beyond this single entrance to the keep lay a wide drawbridge that, when extended, spanned the thousand-foot-deep chasm gaping for miles in either direction.
The bridge, however, was being noisily withdrawn. Soth could picture the cavernous room below the gatehouses, where five or six sweat-soaked men grunted and cursed as they turned the giant wheels that reeled the bridge back into the side of the mountain. Greasy black smoke from the men’s torches would be swirling around the low ceiling, staining everything dark. Long shadows, like creatures wrought only of darkness, would be playing upon the walls as the men heaved against the wheels. It was like a small window into the Abyss in his mind, though Soth knew the hells must be far worse than that.
The reason for all these defensive precautions lay on the other side of the chasm, patiently huddled around a dozen campfires: a party of knights, fellows of Lord Soth’s order, were arrayed before Dargaard, ready to take up the siege they had so graciously delayed for the wedding celebration. Ballistae and catapults stood at the ready, threatening to toss their missiles at the keep’s rose-colored stone. Armored knights, their bright cloaks flapping in the wind, stood close to campfires to fight off the cold.
Soth himself had been part of such sieges. He knew the men would be tired, sick of their bland trail rations and the hard ground that served as their bed each night. Yet they wouldn’t lift the siege, though they had too few catapults to batter down the walls and winter was coming on fast. Knights of Solamnia never gave up easily.
The whole situation reminded Soth of an old ram he’d seen in the mountains. It must have been blind with age, for it mistook a chunk of rock for a rival. The ram smashed itself bloody and senseless against the stone. Wolves tore it to shreds that night as it lay dazed.
And here is the head of the ram now, Soth thought scornfully, for he could see the leader of the siege, Sir Ratelif, as he broke from one of the group of knights.
Sir Ratelif walked to the edge of the chasm, then waited for the grinding squeal of the retreating bridge to cease. When all that remained of the noise was the echo from the gaping split in the earth, the armor-clad man held his hands out, palms up. To Soth, the gesture looked like pleading, and his scorn for the knight grew.
“Soth of Dargaard Keep, you have been found guilty of crimes against your family and the honor of the Order. In the name of Paladine, Kiri-Jolith, and Habbakuk, surrender yourself to the lawful army arrayed against you,” Sir Ratelif cried, repeating a ritual declamation used by the Knights of Solamnia for centuries.
Soth raised a defiant fist. “This keep can withstand your siege for months,” he shouted. “And winter is not so far off that you can stay there forever.”
Sir Ratelif ignored the nobleman’s reply and continued with the ritual, repeating phrases he had said once a day to the besieged Lord Soth for the last two weeks. “Your crimes are many, so I will name only the most grievous offenses. Know first that you stand guilty of breaking your marriage vows by dallying with the elfmaid Isolde of Silvanost while still married to Lady Gadria of Kalaman. Know next that you are guilty of lying to the elfmaid, of misrepresenting your intentions, of getting her with a bastard child.” The knight pursed his lips, as if trying to expel some awful taste from his mouth. “Know finally that you stand suspect of plotting and achieving the murder of your lawful wife, Gadria.”
His jaw clenched, his hands held in tight fists, Soth turned away from the army. From below, Ratelif's voice rang out once more: “You stand atop a tower wrought in the likeness of the red rose, Lord Soth. Never has there been a greater stain upon that blessed symbol of our Order.”
The words bit into the nobleman’s heart. He had chosen the sight for Dargaard Keep because of the abundance of rose quartz in the mountains near at hand, had drawn plans to the keep himself so that its tapering tower would resemble nothing so much as that incomparable flower. That a fellow knight would denigrate his monument to the Order…
Lord Soth gazed up at the two moons visible to him in Krynn’s sky. Solinari, only a sliver in the night, cast its silver-white light over the ground wanly. It was Lunitari’s red glow that colored the world, bathing the night in blood. There was a third moon, Nuitari, but that black orb could be seen only by those corrupted by evil.
By the white moon, symbol of good magic, the Knight of the Rose uttered a vow. “I will make them see, by
