Oath and the Measure (43 page)

Sturm shifted in the chair, his gaze bright and intent. “This is the story they are telling in the High Clerist’s Tower now. Vertumnus returned at the Yuletide, and what that means is that my long banishment is over.”

Caramon pulled up a chair, and Sturm began the marvelous, confusing tale.

“Now this is only one of many versions of that story, mind you. For each man there—Lord Gunthar, Lord Alfred, all of the MarThasals and Jeoffreys and Invernos—remembers it differently now, Lord Gunthar says.”

“As before they remembered the Yule and his first visit differently,” Caramon prompted.

Raistlin shot his brother an impatient look. “I remember Sturm’s account of the first visit, Caramon. Unlike the Knights involved, I need no one to refresh my memory.”

The room fell to an uncomfortable silence. Sturm cleared his throat.

“Well, be that as it may, none of them remember it quite the same. But on a few things, most of them agree.

“After I left the High Clerist’s Tower and came back here, Gunthar and Alfred watched Boniface rather closely, to hear Lord Gunthar tell it. The issue was supposed to be over and buried, settled in trial by combat, but neither of the two justices could help but think that there was something … sour and disturbing about Lord Boniface, about how he had challenged and bullied and taunted me from side to side of the council hall. Nonetheless, they were bound by tradition to accept the outcome of the trial, and of course there were other things to attend to, with spring upon them and wider duties for the Order in the Solamnic countryside.”

“In other words,” Raistlin interrupted dryly, “they forgot about you.”

“I don’t mean it that way,” Sturm protested, hastily and a little strongly. “It’s just that … that … the Order has other business as well.”

The dark twin nodded as his gaze shifted back to the fireplace, to a long, half-dozing abstraction.

Otik bustled out of the kitchen, carrying a tray of steaming crockery. The last of his other guests, a kender and a dwarf Caramon claimed to know, had bundled themselves and waded slowly out the main door of the inn, leaving the common room hushed and virtually empty.

“By the time late spring passed into early summer,” Sturm
continued as Otik set the tea in front of him, “it seemed as if Boniface had forgotten the matter, too. Lord Gunthar said he ate better, he slept later, and eventually he lost entirely that haunted, beset look he had carried with him throughout the previous winter, and he was joking again with the squires, hunting with Adamant Jeoffrey, and even managing a lengthy summer trip west to his holdings in Foghaven.

“So the controversy was all over, or seemed to be. Even the approach of Yule failed to bother anyone or remind them of past hard feelings, for they were reasonably sure—from Lord Alfred down to the youngest Knight who remembered—that this holiday would be pleasant and quiet, like the Yules of a simpler time before the Green Man’s trespass.

“Boniface, too, was merry enough as the banquet approached, and downright jubilant when it began, seated amid his regular faction of Crownguards and Jeoffreys, and this year with several highborn Jochanans to boot. The hall was brighter than any remembered, strung with new lanterns and abundant with torches, as though even the link-boys had caught the lightness of spirit. The music, Lord Gunthar said, was better than the year before—a kender trio from farthest Hylo, two penny whistles and a timbrel, frantic and bawdy and as loud as a nest of squirrels.”

“I’d love to have heard that music!” Caramon exclaimed.

“Hush!” Raistlin snapped, swatting his brother weakly as Sturm smiled and poured the tea.

“Boniface was jubilant, they say, informally propping his booted feet against a long oaken table as if he was at hunt or in the field, not at some formal banquet. Holding court, he was, in the midst of the younger Knights, talking swordsmanship and armor and horses, toasting the hunt and the birth of someone’s son … a Jochanan, if I recall.”

“I am rapt for the particulars,” Raistlin observed ironically. “Go on with the
real
story, Sturm.”

Sturm sipped the tea. It tasted of apple and faint cinnamon—a winter tea, no doubt the last of Otik’s stock.
“As the wine poured,” he said, “the talk grew louder and louder, rising over the kender hornpipes until it distracted Lord Gunthar, and believe me, he is not iron when it comes to manners and protocol.”

Caramon nodded dimly. Raistlin coughed and lifted the cup in front of him.

“Gunthar said that the young Knights ignored him,” Sturm continued, “and that they were only louder and more fierce as the banquet went on. The bluster turned to shouting and jostling, and Lord Gunthar said that it was hard to imagine Boniface in the midst of such horseplay. He said that it was as if something had changed in him, that even his celebrations were … desperate. Boniface threatened the sword at the slightest disagreement and called all to task for their lapses in protocol, citing volume and paragraph of the Measure.”

“In short, he was typically Solamnic,” Raistlin commented, sipping again from his tea.

Sturm ignored his companion. “It was as though Boniface had … had clutched the Oath so tightly that he had lost it. Or so Lord Gunthar said. All of a sudden, he heard a flute amid the laughter and penny whistles.”

“At last!” Raistlin breathed, setting down the cup. “You have a long way in getting to the point of the story, Sturm.”

Sturm ignored him. “The farthest tables fell into silence as the sound of the flute joined with the penny whistles. The new sound delighted the kender musicians, and they began to improvise upon the melody until the sound of the whistles merged with the sound of the flute, and it was hard to tell who was playing what.

“Gunthar looked up, he said, and a thousand roses tumbled from the rafters. Pink and white and red and lavender, they showered the Knights and ladies with a hundred thousand petals. The kender musicians whooped with delight and tossed their instruments into the air, and the flute continued on its own, a solo in the midst of the raining roses.”

“Go on,” Raistlin urged intently.

Sturm smiled. It was the part of the story he liked the best. “There’s not much further to go, my friend. It was then that the doors of the hall burst open. Lord Vertumnus had arrived, at the head of an army.

“Doves flew in front of him, and owls and larks and ravens, scattering to the rafters and singing as they scattered. Squirrels and hares followed them, and foxes stalked in behind them, strutting among the tables like sharp-eared hunting dogs.

“Well, the kender were ecstatic by now, their dances more brisk and disruptive, overflowing onto tables and onto the dais. Gunthar said it became too much for Adamant Jeoffrey, who grabbed two of the little folk by their topknots and held them still.”

“There’s one I’d like to do the same to,” Caramon muttered ominously, looking over his shoulder at the door of the common room. “And I’d like to sling him around while I was at it.”

“A dozen elk followed,” Sturm said, “and two dozen deer after them. The creatures entered silently, and Derek Crownguard was startled out of ten years by an enormous dark-eyed buck, its long, serious face crowned with a wide rack of antlers, who crept up behind him and nuzzled him.”

Sturm laughed at the image. The prospect of Derek Crownguard backing up into yet another surprise amused him no end. Lord Gunthar had told and retold that particular scene, to his young friend’s continual delight.

“Then the music arrived,” Sturm said when he recovered, “in the wake of the deer and the elk. Three centaurs cantered into the hall, capsizing table and chair and the family banners. Each of the huge creatures played the nillean pipes, and on the back of each rode a green-robed female. Gunthar says it was a human druidess and two dryads, all playing hand drums. I suppose you know who they are from the story I have told you.

“Last of all came the great bear, the grizzly, striding all confident and free right into the midst of the Order. And
Lord Wilderness sat atop the broad shoulders and back of the bear, his flute raised and glittering, playing and playing at a new song.…”

Caramon stood up, his impatience rising with him. “This is all well and good, Sturm, all this stuff about processionals and music. But what about the Knight? What about that villain Boniface? I can’t stand a story where he doesn’t get what’s coming to him.”

“That is next, Caramon,” Sturm replied. “Boniface rose from the table, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. Gunthar and Alfred stepped down from the dais.

“Vertumnus slid from the back of the bear, and again he pivoted in a full circle, his flute vanishing again somewhere in the leaves that covered him. Centaurs set aside their pipes, the druidess and dryads their hand drums, and the music drifted from the room.”

“ ‘I am Vertumnus,’ he announced, his voice as always mild and low. ‘And again in the turning seasons, I wish to make a point near and dear to my heart. And to rehearse the legends of druids.’ ”

“I know of no druidic legends,” Caramon declared.

Sturm shrugged. “Neither do I. And neither, it seemed, did Lord Gunthar. He looked around at his cohorts—at Alfred and Boniface and the squadron of Jeoffreys and Jochanans, and he saw the same blank look on each face.

“ ‘Very well,’ Lord Gunthar said. ‘Rehearse your legends, Vertumnus.’ He laughed about it when he told me. He said that he strutted and blustered as if he could have stopped Vertumnus from saying or doing anything he wished, but I suppose that’s all the Measure is sometimes—saying we can control something because we don’t want to look at its depths, its prospects.…”

“Enough philosophy,” Raistlin declared. “It doesn’t become you.”

Sturm continued, his eyes on the fire. “ ‘It is a simple legend, Lord Gunthar Uth Wistan,’ the Green Man announced, ‘one brought to me by the Lady Hollis.’

“Then Hollis, or Ragnell, or whatever name she really goes by, dismounted from the centaur.

“They’ve a puzzle about the lady, you know,” Sturm said, his gaze lost in the depths of the glowing coals. “Some saw a hideous hag descend from the centaur’s back; others saw a young and beautiful woman, her dark hair crowned with ivy. Some—very few—saw no druidess at all.”

He smiled and shook his head, and the twins glanced at one another curiously.

“But each of them heard Vertumnus, and his next words all remembered clearly.

“ ‘I have heard,’ the Green Man claimed, ‘that a druidess can cast a spell so powerful that a treasonous man—a rank betrayer of friend and Order and country—cannot draw his sword from sheath or scabbard. Or so the druids have told me.’

“The council hall was silent, Gunthar said. Not a word passed beneath the banners. Then all of them started at the sweeping noise of a blade drawn from its sheath. As one, they turned toward the source of the sound.”

“Boniface!” Raistlin said with a triumphant laugh. “The pompous fool fell for a child’s trick!”

“
What
trick?” Caramon asked, reaching across the table for more of the bread. “I thought we were talking about druid spells.”

“You’re right, Raistlin,” Sturm said. “It did discover the villain. Boniface was standing beside his chair, shamefaced and horrified, his sword halfway bared.

“Vertumnus grinned at the prospect. Of course, I do not believe those legends, though some of you may find them convincing,’ he said, and he climbed the dais to stand by Lord Gunthar.

“Boniface pulled the remaining length of blade from the scabbard and swaggered to the center of the room. I can imagine the look on his face. I’m sure that I have seen it before. ‘Does Lord Wilderness accuse me of dark and treacherous crimes?’ he asked loudly, and I would have
liked to have been in that hall—been a fox or a raven or even a winter spider—to have seen what came to pass.

“Because Vertumnus only shook his head. Tour sword hand accuses you, Boniface of Foghaven,’ he replied mildly, and I know that the mildness heaped further coals on the heads of the family Crownguard.”

Wordlessly Sturm rose from the table and stood by the fireplace, then moved to the window. Outside, the snow had stopped, and the stars peeked out of a low netting of clouds. At the edge of the eastern sky, the white rim of Solinari glittered on the horizon.

The red moon was nowhere in sight.

Sturm took a deep breath and turned to face his companions.

“ ‘Then my sword shall redeem me from insult and calumny,’ Boniface said, and then he raised his sword in the traditional challenge to trial by combat. Vertumnus nodded and extended his sword hand, and they tell me that green fire danced over his fingers. Then he winked at Lord Gunthar, once and mysteriously, and asked in a stage whisper, ‘Will no man lend me the use of a sword?’

“Gunthar claims that he doesn’t know why he gave Vertumnus his sword. The Crownguards are calling him a traitor. They’ve called him worse names through the winter and into the spring, and even Lord Alfred says that Gunthar was charmed or ensorcelled.

“Gunthar says it was something else. He says that, despite the commotion and the accusings, he’s glad he did it.

“But whatever it was, charm or freewill, he drew his sword and handed it to Vertumnus, who stretched, yawned, and leapt to the center of the room, not a sword’s length from Lord Boniface.

“ ‘
Arms extreme
,’ is it? Lord Wilderness asked.

“ ‘
Arms courteous
,’ Boniface replied nervously, and he sheathed his sword as Derek Crownguard stepped by the nibblesome elk and made his way to the chest where the wicker swords lay ready.

“ ‘As you wish,’ Vertumnus replied. ‘
Arms courteous
it shall be, and may truth rest in the sword arm of the victor.’