“I do not lie!” Threehands snapped.
“Nor did I so accuse you,” Skytoucher said. She sounded even more chiding of the elder brother than of the younger, which gave Pirvan some hope.
That hope died in the next moment. Skytoucher frowned. “There is only one trail we can follow to the end. You must open your mind and heart to me, Sir Pirvan. Let nothing be concealed any longer, and we shall know the truth behind your presence here.”
But also, he thought, far too many secrets of the Knights of Solamnia, which honor, Oath, Measure, and good sense alike commanded him to keep.
It did not matter whether the Gryphons were friend or foe, now or ever. Skytoucher was asking Pirvan casually to relinquish secrets that knights had died by torture or their own hands rather than yield.
This may not be treachery, Pirvan considered, but one wonders if it will make much difference, after we are dead.
Pirvan shook his head. “My Oath as a Knight of-”
“The knights had taken many oaths, like you, but it was the ones to Istar that they kept with our blood,” Threehands all but shouted. “So we know how much the knights’ oaths are worth, when it is life or death for our people.”
“Oh, stop picking at old sores,” Gerik said. Before anyone could stop gaping enough to reprove him, he continued.
“Wise chief, wise seer. You need only the truth about our purpose here, nothing else. Enter my mind and heart, where you will find all you need. Leave my sire and mother be, for they will die before they yield up-”
“That also can be done-” Threehands began.
“You must shed my blood before theirs, for I am bound-”
“To those who kill ‘barbarians’ for sport?” Threehands shouted.
By this time Pirvan had dragged his son and wife into a triangle, so that all flanks were guarded and no back was bare. They did not draw steel; Pirvan vowed to leave that dishonor to the Free Riders.
If the two sons of Redthorn clash, Pirvan wondered, will that sow enough confusion among the Gryphons to let us escape?
Perhaps it would. And perhaps it would make the Gryphons easier prey to hostile clans or the Istarians. But bringing that about would break Pirvan’s oath to Hawkbrother, who seemed ready to fight his own brother or even father to keep his agreement. Again, Pirvan saw a trail that led to folly as well as dishonor.
Then he saw nothing at all for a moment. A thunderstorm formed within the cave, and dazzling silver light blinded them all while thunder crashed. Pirvan was sure the cave was about to fall on him and he would be honorably entombed under the rubble of the hill-
His vision cleared, his hearing returned, but speech eluded him.
Standing in the middle of the cave, using his staff as a cane, was Tarothin.
Short of using the edge of his sword, Krythis left nothing untried to speed his passage through the crowd. This brought him within sight of his daughter, as her affray reached its climax.
She stood facing a tall man, whom Krythis recognized as an itinerant fletcher. Not unskilled at his craft, he had a weakness for drink and women-and also a weakness of memory, or so it seemed.
At least he was claiming to remember a promise from Rynthala, that her father was utterly certain she had never made to this man and probably to none other. He claimed to remember this promise, and now came to demand it be kept. To demand in a crowd, at the top of his lungs, with many of the lady’s friends and kin and few of his own within hearing.
Is this son of a she-ass trying to have himself killed, for someone else’s purpose? wondered Krythis. He might have left Rynthala to settle the matter herself, but if there was more than drunken folly here-
In the next moment, Krythis understood just how truly his daughter had come of age, and how little she needed his help.
The man rushed forward. A few guests standing close to him made futile grabs at the ragged shirttail flying behind him. The only one to get a firm grip was a kender, who was too light to halt the man. He rushed onward toward Rynthala.
The woman flung herself backward, rolling as she did. The man hurled himself atop her, just as Rynthala rolled back. Her knees rose, and both caught the man in the groin.
Afterward, some witnesses said the man flew his own height into the air. Less sober witnesses said various fantastic things. Krythis was certain the man rose no more than an arm’s length, but that was high enough to let Rynthala roll clear, spring to her feet, and draw her dagger in case it became a matter for steel.
It did not. The man was writhing on the ground, as unable to rise as a boiled eel, his face a mask of agony. Rynthala knelt beside him, then rose and sheathed her dagger.
“Can someone go for Sirbones?” she called. “This lout may be unmanned for life without healing, and he may not deserve that.”
Somebody must have gone for Sirbones, because the priest of Mishakal did appear a few minutes later. Nearly everybody else spent the time cheering Rynthala, or pounding her on the back, or carrying her on their shoulders (in which the dwarves and humans had greater success than the kender.)
Krythis tried to find someone who looked less than joyful over Rynthala’s bloodless victory, but everyone was moving about too quickly. If the fletcher had any allies in the crowd, they were acting their part well.
A pity, thought Krythis. If I find anyone who plots to launch a blood feud on Rynthala’s great day, I will unman him beyond all healing.
Then several revellers-he could not tell of what race-were grabbing him and dragging him into a line of dancers. Someone else thrust a cup into his free hand, and he drank it off without asking what it was or remembering what it had been.
Nor was this the last such cup. Somewhere in the middle of the drinking, he saw that Rynthala had joined the dancers. She had all her mother’s grace of movement and more, and although her garb had been damaged in the scuffle, she still looked worthy of a royal crown.
One day she will make and keep that promise, Krythis found himself thinking, and on that day the gods will know where to find the happiest man on Krynn.
“Long life to Rynthala!” someone shouted.
“Long life!” Krythis shouted, and then everybody was wishing everybody else long life and much else. The dwarves beat drums, the kender joined in on hoopaks, and a flute that sounded very much like Tulia’s rose silver and sweet above all the din.
The first response to Tarothin’s appearance came from Threehands. He snatched a dagger from his belt, so swiftly that it seemed to sprout from his hand. Then his arm snapped forward.
Tarothin stood, raising neither hand, staff, nor spell. He merely gave slightly with the impact of the dagger, as its point thudded into his chest. Then he worked the dagger free, examined the point, and gently dropped it at his feet.
“A few layers of boiled leather is good enough for daggers, and does not brawl and brangle with spells as mail or plate can do.”
The casual explanation seemed to enrage Threehands further. He flung himself toward Tarothin. He met, instead, his brother, grappling with him bare-handed.
The two brothers rolled on the floor. Before they could do more than tear clothing and lose dignity, Redthorn stepped down from his seat. He carried a long spear, and brought its butt end down smartly on heads, shoulders, buttocks, or whatever presented itself. His speed and agility made it plain that he wore his years lightly; Pirvan hoped they would not face one another in serious combat.
In moments, the two brothers were standing, well apart, glowering at each other, and rubbing bruises.
“You need not defend the Gryphons or your friends with each other’s blood,” Redthorn snapped. He turned to Skytoucher.
“What does this mean? I thought this cave was bound against any magic save yours. Also, you said no Istarian Robed One could read your thoughts. Yet this Tarothin seems to have done that, then pierced your binding spells.”