Sir Marckus broke into a gallop and raced across the drawbridge. At the dock he had introduced himself as the duke’s representative and led the caravan of carriages and mounted knights through the city. The captain of her own escort, Sir Powell, rode along just behind Sir Marckus. It was impossible to imagine two more perfect symbols of the knighthood-the Code and the Measure practically oozed from their bodies like perspiration.
Now, within the gate, the two captains dismounted, stood aside, and saluted as Selinda’s driver lashed his horses and urged the carriage over the broad drawbridge and into the huge courtyard. Gray walls rose to all sides, but the effect was more exhilarating than confining. At least a thousand men at arms lined the parapets, and they all saluted together, clapping their clenched fists onto shields emblazoned with the crimson sign of the Rose.
More people cheered from lower balconies as the carriage came to a stop before a wide veranda. These were nobles and courtiers, Selinda reckoned, noticing silken tunics of many colors, lush fur cloaks on some of the ladies, and here and there, the glint of gold, silver, and other ornaments. She recognized one man in the golden robes of a Patriarch of Shinare, as he hurried forward to her coach.
“Bishop Issel-excuse me, Patriarch,” said the princess as the carriage door opened and she rose to step down. “I had heard of your promotion-the youngest temple master in all Solamnia! Congratulations!”
“I pray to the Winged Master that your father’s faith in me shall prove justified,” said the cleric, bowing humbly. He was a handsome man with a dazzling smile, and she extended her hand to him. “May much profit attend your councils here.”
“Thank you, Patriarch,” she said, hoping the goddess was listening.
One pair of nobles stood alone before the open doors of the great keep. Selinda recognized the duke and duchess, whom she had met when they visited Palanthas. Now they came forward.
“My lady!” gushed the Duchess of Caergoth. “I’m Lady Martha, if you recall. It is such an honor to have you visit!” The duchess was only a few years older than Selinda but giggled like a ninny as she curtsied. The princess recalled that Martha had married Duke Crawford only one year previously.
“Thank you, my lady,” replied Selinda graciously, as she had been taught. “It is an honor to enjoy your hospitality.”
“Princess,” said the duke, charming her with a dazzling smile as he offered his arm. “All Caergoth is delighted to welcome you-we will show you that here the Order of the Rose blooms like never before! But first, let us to show you to your apartments. Tonight there will be a welcome banquet in the great hall of the keep.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Selinda acknowledged, taking the nobleman’s elbow.
She was surprised when the duchess took her other arm and leaned close with another giggle. “I just know we’ll have a lot to talk about!”
The great house in Palanthas was shrouded in darkness. What illumination existed here glowed deep within the walls, shielded from any prying eyes. Shadows yawned in every window, in every chamber except for one central room. Here, Coryn the White worked her magic, and those enchantments cast a pearly illumination through the gloom.
This was the great manor that had long belonged to Lady Jenna, Mistress of the Order of the Red Robes. Now Jenna was Head of the Conclave, the most powerful and influential wizard on all Krynn. She had held that rank for several years, and it was a station that required her almost constant presence in the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth Forest. As a result, she had granted her white-robed counterpart the use not just of her domicile but of the exceedingly well-furnished wizard’s laboratory located there.
Coryn sat at a table on which she had arranged a series of small objects. Each was about the size of a sewing thimble and had been skillfully molded in solid gold. There was a miniature rose, a crown and sword, and a small model of a man-at-arms wielding a great sword. A tiny figurine of a hand mirror-in gold, not glass-sat to one side, and at the far end was a little set of balancing scales. In the very center of the table sat a shallow bowl filled with sparkling white wine. The bony white ceramic of the bowl was the source of the glow, an unnatural but pleasing light.
The wizard stared into the clear bubbling liquid and took up the tiny rose in her slender, delicate fingers. She concentrated, and moments later the image of the Duke of Caergoth appeared on the shimmering surface of the wine. He could be observed barking instructions to his wife, who bustled about in a petticoat while he wrestled with a formal black cape emblazoned with the symbol of the Rose. His wife, Duchess Martha, held up a red dress. He made a face, and she put it down to display a yellow gown. When this one was also rejected by the lord, the young duchess seemed to be on the verge of tears. Coryn didn’t need to hear what they were saying, so she put down the rose and allowed the image in the bowl to fade.
Next she took up the tiny mirror, holding it between her fingers as she again studied the liquid in the creamy white bowl. She saw the Lord Regent du Chagne in his private chamber. The lord stalked back and forth, beside a table blanketed with papers, notes, and an open ledger. The image in the bowl was not magnified enough for Coryn to read any of those pages, but she had no interest in his epistles in any event. She knew that the lord regent was the richest man in Ansalon, and she felt a certain sense of sadness as she regarded his scowling visage.
He would not hold his lordly station if she had not helped him to drive the Dark Knights from Palanthas, for which, despite her melancholy, she bore no regrets. There was so much more to be done in the way of progress, and she didn’t know if du Chagne was ever going to move beyond his increasingly petty concerns. When Coryn envisioned a return to Solamnic Rule, she thought of the great history of the Knighthood, of chivalry and a code of honor that protected the weak, advanced the cause of good against evil. She imagined pageantry and glamour, a state of civility in public affairs that worked toward the benefit of all. The Lord Regent, she had come to realize, thought merely in terms of profit and loss-his own, and that of his closest associates. She watched as he checked the door to his chambers, ensuring that it was locked, then moved to his secret mirror in the alcove. No doubt he needed to harp about profit margins to one of his lords.
Coryn also set that talisman aside. Holding the small crown, she now produced the image of the burly Duke of Thelgaard-Jarrod Yorgan. The big man sat beside a bed in which a sickly looking woman resided. The big man touched the woman’s forehead with a cloth, then stiffened. A glow began to emanate from the mirror on the wall beside the bed, and it was then the wizard realized who du Chagne intended to harangue.
Next she moved to pick up the tiny sword. She watched for a moment with a wry smile as Duke Rathskell of Solanthus, a slender and fit man of more than fifty years, was slowly undressed by his much younger wife. When the sultry woman knelt to unbuckle her lord’s boots, Cory quickly set down the tiny sword talisman.
For a long time she looked at the miniature of the swordsman. She felt a twinge of guilt when she used that spy, a reluctance that never bothered her with the others. The focus of this particular talisman was special, in so many ways… she remembered his strong arms, the fire she felt in her belly when he held her… and the anger, the unquenched-possibly unquenchable-thirst for revenge that still burned inside of him. He craved… what? Justice, certainly, but justice on his own terms. Coryn, of course, wanted justice for all of Solamnia.
He was not a bad man. He was in such terrible danger, and he had suffered so much. He needed her, she knew, while the others merely feared her.