Oath and the Measure (41 page)

“Arms courteous,”
Sturm said quietly.

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.”

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.”

With a bellow, Sturm rushed at Boniface, charging wildly like some enormous, enraged animal. The Knight waited calmly, and at the last moment, he whirled away, tripping Sturm and slapping him on the backside with the flat of the wicker sword. Tumbling head over ankles, the young man skidded over a dropped volume of the Measure and crashed into a scribe’s table, shattering its spindly legs.

“Finish it, Boniface!” Gunthar shouted, his face flushed and his eyes blazing. “By the gods, finish it and leave the boy in peace!”

Boniface nodded dramatically, his smile venomous and merry. He wheeled about and stalked toward a dazed Sturm, who raised his sword uncertainly, unsteadily.

Reeling, his senses jostled and his hands heavy, Sturm watched as Boniface’s sword danced around him, beside him, nicking against breastplate and helmet and knees. It was a swarm of hornets, a flock of stirges, and no matter where he raised his shield to block, his sword to parry, Boniface’s weapon was under him or over him or around him, biting and slashing and gouging.

Twice they locked blades, the fracturing sound of wicker on wicker echoing in the council hall like the sound of tree limbs breaking. Both times Sturm was pushed back, the second time staggering.

Boniface was not only quicker and more skilled, but he was also twice as strong as the lad in front of him.

Cornered, outmaneuvered, battered and checked and scratched and flustered, Sturm pressed against the farthest wall of the room, his back flush against the double oaken doors that had been locked behind him when the audience began.

There was no place to run, no place to dodge the onslaught. His thoughts in a frantic scramble, drowning in a torrent of swords, Sturm searched for something—anything—to
turn back his enemy.

The draconian, he thought at last.

Now what did I do.…

His sword flew out of his hand. Hurled forty feet through the air by a deft turn of Boniface’s blade, it clattered and broke on the stone floor of the council hall. Instantly a wicker point rested in the hollow of his throat, and he looked into the eyes of Boniface—as blue and lifeless as a cloudless winter sky.

“Judgment, Lord Alfred,” Boniface requested. He wasn’t even breathing quickly.

“The council finds for Lord Boniface of Foghaven in trial by combat,” Lord Alfred declared, his voice thin and abstracted.

“Pack your belongings, little boy,” Boniface hissed. “Solace is quaint in the springtime, I am told.”

The four of them emerged from the council hall in silence. In the corridors ahead of them, pages and squires ducked into the alcove, and servants turned too diligently back to their work. Nobody asked the outcome of the trial by combat, nor even why swords had crossed in the first place. The council was sworn to silence in such matters, and neither Alfred nor Gunthar would ever speak of this afternoon.

But everyone would know. If they couldn’t tell by Sturm’s scarlet face, by the grim satisfaction in the steel-blue eyes of Lord Boniface, they would know from the detailed account of Derek Crownguard, who had peered through the keyhole at everything that had transpired.

And they would hear what Derek and Boniface wanted them to hear. “A real swordsman took Angriff Brightblade’s boy behind the woodshed and taught him respect for his elders.”

So was the version Sturm thought they were hearing as
he packed his belongings the next morning. He imagined the cruel news dropped at breakfast into the midst of the whey-faced, conspiratorial Jeoffreys, who would laugh behind their bacon to imagine it.

Slowly he wrapped his shield, breastplate, and sword in thick canvas. They had served him better than he had served them. Perhaps at some later time, he would be worthy of them again. As for now, he would take defeat like the Knight he devoutly hoped to be.

All accusations and suspicions were supposed to die in the council hall. According to the laws of trial by combat, Boniface of Foghaven had set them to rest with his sword. Indeed, as Sturm wrapped the last yard of cloth about his sword, he was beginning to believe that Boniface was innocent.

For the draconian’s word could well have been slander, simply conjured out of an overheard name and a spiteful heart …

… and as for Jack Derry …

Well, in the past fortnight, dream and imagining had blended so thoroughly with fact and reason that …

He shook his head. Boniface was guilty, regardless of Oath and Measure. He knew it in far deeper places than ritual touched. And yet Sturm’s own weakness with the sword had assured the freedom of his assailant. The trial was over. Regardless of what he or Alfred or Gunthar thought about the matter, Boniface had been found innocent, acquitted by his sword hand and the ancient Solamnic machinery of statute and tradition.

Hoisting armor to his shoulder, Sturm followed the elaborate maze of corridors from his quarters to the courtyard. It was like the day he had departed for the Southern Darkwoods, shorn of farewells and encouragements and even kindly glances. Everyone hastened to avoid him, to find himself elsewhere when Sturm crossed to the Tower stables.

Gunthar had spoken to him the night before and urged
him halfheartedly to stay on at the Clerist’s Tower. He was relieved when Sturm insisted on going and said his good-byes awkwardly, with fumbling words and a brusque handshake.

Nor would he tell the lad anything about Lord Stephan Peres.

Lord Stephan would have seen me off in better style, Sturm thought as he inspected old Reza’s feeble and distracted efforts at saddling Luin. There would have been jests and windy words from the battlements, and even perhaps some wisdom, though the gods know what wisdom one can find amid all this misdirection and folly.…

But Lord Stephan was … away. Reza had come to the matter at last, as he fretted with the saddle, and the bizarre story of the old Knight’s departure came to slow and scarcely coherent light.

It seems that the very night after Sturm left the Tower for the Darkwoods, Lord Alfred MarKenin had dredged up a band of unlikely hunters for a jaunt after deer in the Wings of Habbakuk. Lord Adamant Jeoffrey’s younger twin brothers had volunteered at once, eager to curry favor with the High Justice, and Derek Crownguard, too, when Lord Boniface’s sudden duties at Thelgaard Keep had left him unattended. Given such a triad of young lions, Alfred had invited Lord Gunthar as “a steadying influence.” Gunthar begged off, seeing no prospects in the group for either hunting or good fellowship, but Lord Stephan overheard the offer and imposed himself on the party at once.

“Where did they hunt, Reza?” Sturm asked. “And what does this have to do with Stephan’s leave-taking?”

“In due time,” Reza said, leaning in the doorway as Sturm gathered his clothes and stuffed them in a saddlebag, his thoughts intent on the Knight’s story. “Meanwhile, here’s the rest of it: They were a mixed lot, were Lord Alfred’s hunting party, and when they decided to take me along as a lyamer of sorts … well, they weren’t the best at what they were fixin’ to do. Lord Alfred decided we would go to the
Hart’s Forest, on account of that’s forest enough for the likes of the Jeoffreys.”

Sturm smiled. The Hart’s Forest was a forty-acre deer park not far from where the Wings tapered into the Virkhus Hills. Once he had admired the place and loved to hunt there, but after his journey to the Southern Darkwoods, it seemed rather tame and arranged—a well-planned garden of trees and wildlife.

“Well, we get there about sunup,” Reza continued, “and we thrashed around for near three hours, flushing squirrels and gnats and starlings, with nary a trace of deer. It bothered Lord Alfred, I’d wager—them clumsy Jeoffreys, Derek Crownguard’s loud voice, Lord Stephan blowing on a beaten-up hunting bugle and tangling his armor in vines. So finally Lord Alfred called off the hunt, and it wasn’t even noon yet. We turned about and started out of the park.”