Jack cleared his throat.
"Not much of your exalted friend left in that son of his," he observed teasingly, his gaze on Lord Wilderness.
"You could have learned much from him, Jack," Vertumnus insisted. "Most of the world out there is like him."
"We wish the lizard had eaten him!" Diona hissed.
"We do not!" Evanthe argued, pulling her sister's hair until the smaller dryad squealed with anger and pain. They wrestled like squirrels on a high branch, then stopped suddenly as Evanthe hung precariously from a twig.
"But why, Lord Vertumnus?" they asked in unison. "Why did the lizard's poison fail?"
"Washed by the snow of our music," Vertumnus explained. "And no more scuffles and snicker-snacks from the two of you!" He waved his flute at the dryads, and the wind coursed through it. Instantly the vallenwood sprouted branches all about them, trapping them in a cage of wood.
The Green Man looked into the pool, where leaves floated aimlessly and the waters rippled and swirled. The faint call of birds at the edge of the forest signaled spring's return, and a warm western breeze sailed through the branches.
"He is a noble sort," Jack observed after a long silence in which the villagers, believing the music and drama were over and that what was said now passed only between father and son, dispersed to various tasks in the clearing. "Honorable and brave, and only half tedious. He distinguished himself with sword and honor."
"That is all he chooses to know," Vertumnus observed. "And he may perish for lack of knowledge." As he put away his flute, music again filled the clearing.
Quickly the company in the trees turned toward the source of the melody. The elf maiden Mara stood at the far edge of the pool, clad in a white gown of gossamer and leaves. A wreath of holly was woven into the strands of her dark hair, and her eyes were adorned with the subtle colors of berries.
Hollis stood behind her, grinning at her handiwork and at how Jack Derry's eyes and smile widened at the sight of the girl.
Mara held the flute to her lips and played on, the stately hymn of Branchala, for which only the elves have words. The villagers, sensing something wonderful and beyond their understanding, stopped their tasks to listen. Standing in a ring of children, Weyland the smith turned to face the elf maiden and reverently removed his hat.
"Bitch!" Diona hissed angrily, but she fell into silence at a withering glance from Vertumnus. Jack rose and climbed down the tree, his eyes never leaving the brilliant spectacle of maiden and music, his thoughts adoring and intimate.
Vertumnus turned away, surrendering the privacy of the moment to his son and the girl.
"The first of spring is always approaching," he whispered knowingly.
Around Sturm the night had settled, and the stars arranged themselves in the winter constellations. It struck him for the first time that perhaps the days had reversed themselves, that the year had sunk back into ice to await the coming of spring.
For a moment, his thoughts turned to the Southern Darkwoods. Perhaps if the spring were postponed, there was still time to turn the horse about, to retrace the path he had taken…
But he was deep into Solamnia now, a scant three hours' ride from the Tower of the High Clerist. He had chosen to return, and now he would do so, regardless of judgment and censure and the threat of Lord Boniface. It was honorable to see this through, to brave the disapproval of Lords Gunthar and Alfred and Stephan for {he sake of justice. And for revenge.
Surely the Knights would incline their ear to redress Lord Boniface's misdeeds. For Justice is the heart of the Measure and the soul of the Rose.
On he rode, into the mountainous night, until the faint sentry lights on the battlements of the Knight's Spur shone high in the west like one last constellation.
They clothed him, and fed him, and put him to bed. Old Reza attended the Knight's quarters in the early hours of the morning, and it was he who saw to Sturm's comfort, arranging bread and cheese on a table in front of the lad and pouring goblet after goblet of water while he poured Tower gossip into Sturm's inattentive ears.
"And the Jeoffreys feuded with the MarKenins once more, young master, though not as fiercely as they done back in the summer of 'twenty-seven. It all started when young Hieronymus Jeoffrey lit into Alastor MarKenin after some hunting they done in the Hart's Forest. Hieronymus come from it with a black eye and a dented countenance, which makes Darien Jeoffrey decide that Sir Alastor is needin' to be… well, adorned likewise. So Darien and a trio of younger Jeoffreys light into Alastor in a dark passage over the Knight's Spur, and he comes out with eye and countenance and a broken left hand to boot. Which Lord Alfred redresses by pushing Darien against a crenel the next morning and grabbing the lad's off hand with a little too much emphasis, if you understand…"
Sturm nodded. Reza continued serenely, forgetting his traditional place in the excitement of the story and seating himself by the young man.
"But in that process, Master Sturm, Sir Darien comes away with the additional bruised ribs, which Lord Adamant goes around claiming Lord Alfred has not got and is in sore need of. So Lords Adamant and Alfred came to the edge of dueling and would of passed over into swords or lances had not Lord Stephan stepped in and smoothed down the hackles…"
Sturm nodded and mumbled, his mouth full of bread. The Tower was the same.
"And, of course, like he always does," Reza babbled on serenely, "Lord Boniface says that they should settle it by the sword anyway, though betwixt you and me, young Master, they could settle it if only one of them knew how to let a bygone be and get on with the business of knighthood. Anyway, Lord Boniface says it could be arms courteous, the blunted sword or the wicker, but that the Measure said, and so and so…"
Sturm was instantly alert at the name of his father's old friend. Slowly he set down the goblet and stared at the ancient servant, trying his best to appear calm, only mildly interested.
"Lord Boniface, you say? Then he… is here at the Tower?"
Reza nodded. "Have some more cheese, Master Sturm," he offered, pushing the plate toward the lad. "Yes, indeed, Lord Boniface is here."
"Then I shall have to pay my respects, out of family loyalty," Sturm replied-a little too quickly, he feared. "Yes. I'll call on him and pay my respects."
He smiled at the old servant and accepted another wedge of cheese. His thoughts raced quickly over strategies.
"He'll expect you right away," Reza prodded. "You know how he is about the Measure."
"Indeed he will," Sturm said, grateful for the interfering nature of ancient retainers. "Indeed he will, Reza, and given the hour and my weariness, I should be beholding if you would say nothing of my arrival until a time when I might… present myself to him."
Reza nodded, bowed, and backed away from the table. Sturm finished the bread, sure of the old man's confidence. Then he stood quietly, yawned, took the candle from the table, and slipped down a back stairwell to his cubicle. He was tired and already dreaming as he approached the room, oblivious to the hour, the birdsong outside, the soft shuffling on the stairs behind him.
As Sturm closed the door behind him, a faint light appeared on the stairwell landing. Stealthily Derek Crown-guard peered around the corner, smiled, and padded up the steps to his uncle's chambers.