Mystified, the three generals and two nobles retired to the headquarters of the encampment, where they might, with more comfort, mull over a plan of action.
“Ankhar’s army is only a dozen miles to the east,” Martin explained after they had all settled with tea and a ration of biscuits. “We’ve had scouts following him, and it doesn’t seem like he’s in a great hurry to flee. Can’t you strike him there soon?”
All three generals shook their heads, though it was Markus who offered the explanation. “Our men are exhausted, and we are all woefully under strength. This army needs rest, replenishment, and reinforcements-if any can be found. It would be rash to the point of recklessness to charge into battle now, even if we could catch up to the fiend.”
“But he’s right there, within your grasp!” insisted Lord Harbor, gesturing vaguely toward the east. “Surely this is an opportunity we can’t afford to pass up?”
“What about your own garrison?” asked General Rankin sharply. “Do you have perhaps a thousand knights ready to ride? Can you contribute five times that many footmen to our strength? Or two regiments of archers, with twenty arrows for every man?”
“Of course not!” the lord retorted. “We have barely survived this siege with a skeleton garrison. We have perhaps three hundred horses, woefully underfed. And our footmen are half starved. But we drove the enemy away-we have already given our full measure!”
“What my colleague means,” Lord Martin suggested diplomatically, “is that we have also suffered and are diminished. It seems obvious that, even if we combined all our forces, we don’t have enough troops to confront the enemy-not at the present time, at least.”
Sir Templar arrived to find the two groups huddled around the campfire, their command counsel rapidly deteriorating into sighs and long, gloomy silences.
“Sirs,” he reported breathlessly. “I have received word from one of my fellow clerics, in Palanthas.”
“Do you mean that inquisitor fellow?” asked Dayr suspiciously. “I don’t trust anything he has to tell us!”
“No, not him.” The young Clerist knight, who had proved his worth to the generals beyond any doubt when he screened the bridge attack over the Vingaard, spoke frankly. “In point of fact, I share your suspicions about the inquisitor, especially where this army is concerned. But I received an ethereal missive from a priestess, Melissa du Juliette. And she is a woman, a cleric, I trust implicitly.”
“And what did this priestess have to say?” asked Markus impatiently.
“The lord marshal is in Palanthas!” The words, the momentous news, seemed to burst excitedly from the Clerist. “He’s been there twice in the last month, apparently, most recently appearing there several days ago. Evidently he travels by magic-perhaps the White Witch teleports him. The first time he was there, he fought a duel with Lord Frankish over the Princess Selinda-it was Frankish who issued the challenge-and the lord marshal won, I’m pleased to report. Frankish himself was slain. Today the lord marshal is marrying the princess-it was she who was the cause of the duel. and finally, Lord Marshal Jaymes has taken command of the Palanthian Legion and will be marching at its head on the morrow, hastening here to join us at the front! With him are marching a thousand knights, and six or eight thousand infantry!”
“Well,” General Dayr said, with the first smile that had graced his visage since the successful crossing of the Vingaard. “That rather changes things, I should say.”
Selinda disdained the great temple in the center of Palanthas, and instead had selected a modest chapel of Kiri-Jolith for her wedding site. The whole city was celebrating the holiday, but there would be less than a hundred people who could actually crowd into the small building. Of these guests, virtually all were friends of the bride from the court or diplomats who represented places from across Ansalon.
The presiding cleric, Melissa du Juliette, a young priestess of Kiri-Jolith, was not the most experienced nor best-known member of the clergy. But she had been a young maid at the regent’s court when Lady du Chagne was alive, and there she had befriended and mentored the young princess. Now Selinda remembered her wisdom, affection, and kindness and asked Melissa to preside over the marriage ceremony. Melissa had warned Selinda that she would offend a number of the temple’s hierarchy by selecting the young priestess to perform the ceremony, but the princess had shrugged away her concern.
“I have offended them already,” Selinda said coolly. “Jaymes is not a nobleman, and this match is unthinkable to the hidebound who consider themselves the adjudicators of what is right and proper. But I love him… and I believe he is the greatest man of the age.”
“Marrying for love is good,” Melissa replied diplomatically. “Though your courtship did happen so quickly. Are you sure you don’t want to wait for a little time to pass?”
“No-we must marry now. We are both in a hurry. And he has a war to win!”
“This immediate wedding-was it his idea?” asked the priestess.
“I can’t even recall,” the princess declared. “No-he proposed to me, of course, but I insisted we marry at once, before he returns to the front. Oh, Melissa, I’m so happy!”
“I’m glad,” the cleric said, tenderly touching the younger woman on the cheek.
So the nuptials were arranged and commenced before sunset on that very day. The lord regent was present, looking splendid in a gold frock coat and powdered wig. He escorted his daughter down the aisle in the center of the great church, bowing-ever so slightly-as Lord Marshal Jaymes Markham stepped forward. The princess gave her father a peck on the cheek then took the arm of the man she was marrying.
If anyone noticed that neither Lord Inquisitor Frost nor the Kingfisher, Sir Moorvan, was in attendance, they did not remark on the fact. There were whispered comments, however, about the absence of Coryn the White-who was known to be in the city. She was a famous ally of the regent’s, a friend of the bride, and a steadfast companion of the groom’s, so where was she? Inevitably her absence provoked speculation. Was she jealous of the princess? Did she, in fact, love Jaymes Markham, as many gossiped? Or did she have secret reasons for objecting to the match?
The celebration was heightened when good news arrived from the battlefield. Carrier pigeons brought the first reports, but overnight several couriers arrived from the plains, riding their staggering horses through the city gates. Their dispatches were posted throughout the city, announcing the relief of Solanthus, the general retreat of Ankhar’s army, and the continued advance of the Army of Solamnia. Even without its famous commander, the steadfast Knights of the Rose, Crown, and Sword were liberating conquered lands and rekindling the legendary glories of their historic orders.
Everyone agreed the bridal couple made a splendid match-boding well for the future of the Solamnic nation. To the common people it mattered little that Jaymes Markham was not of the nobility. His martial air inspired awe and boosted by the good news from the front, fresh admiration. As for Selinda, she embodied the city’s legacy, symbolized by the lofty rank of lord regent held by her father, the highest ranking possible in the Solamnic territories, considering the kingship no longer existed.
When at last Jaymes and Selinda made their appearance outside the chapel, the citizens in the square cheered lustily. Selinda was radiant in a gown of white silk, embellished with gauze, accented with strands of pearls at her throat and wrapped around both wrists. Her golden hair, coiffed magnificently atop her head, sparkled with an array of diamond combs. Her happiness was plain to all, as she did not wear a veil.
The lord marshal, somewhat to the surprise of the few who knew him, was also resplendent. He wore a red coat, white trousers, and tall black horseman’s boots that had been shined to a fault. A black, knee-length cape accented his wedding garb. Jaymes wore a ceremonial sword-which the most astute recognized as the blade with which he had killed Lord Frankish in the duel-in a jeweled scabbard at his belt.