central spire itself lay behind the curtain wall. It rested upon a giant octagonal base with a ring of turrets that rose higher than the battlements themselves. They, in turn, were dwarfed by a one-hundred-fifty-foot tower that surpassed them all as it rose like a spear into the heavens. It seemed a worthy companion to the surrounding mountains.
The second structure was an adjoining keep, a later addition to the High Clerist’s Tower. Built by the city of Palanthas itself, the keep was blocky and relatively squat but imposing nonetheless. Where the tower rested against one side of the Knight’s High Road, the keep extended to the other canyon wall. A stream ran to a portcullis gate at the foot of the keep, while the second road approached a stone ramp leading up to the main gate.
As the road split between the tower and keep, so, too, did the traffic and caravans. Pilgrims and the sick traveled to the High Clerist’s Tower. Although the gods had been quiet since the Cataclysm, many followers still made the journey to worship at its temples. Some prayed for good fortune for their businesses or families or crops, while others made the journey for one last reprieve against whatever illness had struck them or their loved ones. In fact, Tythonnia could see a leper caravan moving slowly toward the tower. The other travelers steered clear of the carts that bore the yellow banners.
Merchants and others journeyed straight for the keep and, presumably, the city of Palanthas. To the chaos of that road was added the traffic leaving the pass and heading into the Plains of Solamnia. The human flow added considerably to the din of baying animals, loud voices, creaking carts, and the clop of hooves against the cobblestone road. People argued over right of way as caravans tried passing one another and carts grazed each other.
Over the chaos presided a handful of Knights of Solamnia, a token force to orchestrate the traffic. They allowed pilgrims to enter the High Clerist’s Tower to worship at the temples-for a fee, of course-but nobody was allowed to venture beyond the second level, at least according to the knight who stood upon a wood platform, shouting information over the noise and answering questions from the dozen people standing below him.
The traffic heading toward to the gate had come to an abrupt stop.
Tythonnia, Par-Salian, and Ladonna reined their horses to the side of the road, where pilgrims were selling their remaining goods and hand-carved religious icons on blankets. A group of children, meanwhile, ran about, whooping and crying in play.
“I thought this place abandoned,” Par-Salian said.
“Abandoned? Maybe in the sense that only a handful protect it,” Ladonna said. “The temples need to be maintained and the Knight’s High Road must be protected from brigands who’d use it to tax the caravans.”
“The Westgate door
“Trade caravan,” Ladonna said without looking. When the others pressed her further with a glance, she continued, “From Palanthas? The knights will stop traffic and let them through after an-how do I put this delicately? — inspection.”
“They’re robbing the caravan?” Par-Salian asked, shocked.
“Robbing? Of course not,” Ladonna said with a mischievous smirk. “Encouraging, perhaps, but certainly not robbing. They ‘encourage’ caravan drivers to pay a tax to expedite the inspection. We heard about it all the time in Palanthas.”
“So they’re not stopping anyone,” Tythonnia said. “But they’ll take longer if they’re not happy with the bribe.”
Ladonna grunted by way of confirmation. It was the most words they’d exchanged in the past few days, not that Tythonnia minded. “We’ll likely be waiting a couple of hours depending on the length of the caravan and the mood of the guards.”
“But-they’re Solamnic Knights, sworn to uphold integrity and faith. Why, they’re no different than the brigands you-”
“If it makes you feel better, they give part of their earnings to the priests who maintain the tower’s temples,” Ladonna said. “Being good means committing the same sins but finding better justifications for them.”
Tythonnia shook her head. It was typical of a black robe wizard to assume the worst of everyone else. Before she could say as much, however, Ladonna dismounted and began pulling her horse along as she examined the wares on the blankets.
“Wait, where are you going?” Par-Salian asked.
“We’re here for a few hours, and I could do with some time alone,” Ladonna said.
“We should stick together,” Tythonnia said.
“Not every bloody second of every bloody day,” Ladonna said. “I’ll meet you back here in two hours. Unless you’re afraid of being left alone?”
“That’s not the point, Ladonna!” Par-Salian said.
“Good,” Ladonna replied, drifting into the crowd and waving back at them. “Two hours it is. Ta!”
Par-Salian and Tythonnia watched their compatriot vanish into the gathered mass.
“Maybe she’s right. I could do with a cooked meal,” he said, nodding at the pavilion-covered tavern. “And with eating at a table. I miss tables. And chairs.”
Tythonnia shrugged her shoulders. “Fine,” she said, though it irked her to let Ladonna get away with her little act of disrespect. “Two hours.”
Par-Salian did little to hide his exasperation. “Tythonnia,” he said. “Perhaps you should stop taking things so personally.”
Tythonnia opened her mouth to complain, but he stopped her with a raised hand. “I’d expect that of Ladonna … as a Black Robe,” he practically whispered. “You know how they are. She’s been taught to be selfish. But you, you’re of the red cloth. You should be open to both sides.”
“What about you?” Tythonnia said, her eyebrows cocked high. “What’s your job?”
“To believe in the best of you both,” he said with a congenial smile. There was a sparkle to his grin, a rare thing since the trip began.
Tythonnia felt the tension melt away, and she nodded with a smile. “Maybe you’re right. I could do with a couple hours alone. Go, go get your warm meal. And be careful.”
Par-Salian nodded and practically licked his lips in anticipation of sitting down to eat. Tythonnia spotted a camp farther away and decided to investigate. Truth be told, she was tired of fretting over her two companions, and perhaps Par-Salian was right; maybe they all needed a break from each other.
The Journeyman watched the three wizards split up, each of them heading in different directions through the crowd. After a moment of watching them, it was easy to see where each was headed. Ladonna perused the wares being sold along the road. Par-Salian’s appetite got the better of him as he tied his Qwermish to a hitching post outside the tavern. Tythonnia headed for a small encampment of travelers and their shelter wagons.
That would make his job more difficult, but of the three, history knew the least about Tythonnia. Par- Salian’s and Ladonna’s contributions to the orders were well recorded and scandalized, while the Red Robe was a relative enigma, historically speaking.
He chose to follow Tythonnia.
“Welcome, sir. Sit, sit.”
Par-Salian was caught off guard when the bald-headed man rushed forward to meet him and, as quickly, ushered him to an open table. The pavilion was spacious and propped up by ornately carved poles. Six tables took up one side of the tent, while wood barrels and a makeshift bar filled the other side. A serving boy bustled through the tent flap near the bar, and Par-Salian caught glimpse of a cooking pit outside next to the stream where they washed the dishes.
The tables were made from three barrels tied together as a base with a circular tabletop. The chairs were stools and comfortable in the short term, while the bar itself was a series of barrels with planks between them as counter space. Four men and two dwarves stood at the bar, drinking a quick goblet of something with businesslike quiet, while travelers from different lands occupied two tables. The ground was muddy, the grass torn up by regular traffic.
“You got steel, do you?” the bald man asked. His arms were as thick as his accent, and his chest seemed to
