Sturm announced his presence the next morning.
He collared a page in the hall and sent the boy rushing to Lord Alfred MarKenin, bearing the news that Master Sturm Brightblade had returned from parts eastward and south and would be honored to give account of his journey in the presence of the High Council.
When the page returned at noon to escort him to the council room of the Knight's Spur, Sturm followed the child, his armor spotless and buffed, his sword glittering and naked in his hand. For an odd moment in his quarters, he had thought to place the weapon in the sheath that was Vertumnus's gift.
He had decided against it. It was a gleaming reminder of his defeat.
Sturm knew that the High Council was made up of Lords Gunthar, Alfred, and Stephan. Since the council sat privately with each returning Knight, Boniface would not be present. For what Sturm had to say, that absence would be most welcome.
The council room was none other than the great hall in which the Yule banquet had taken place. Stripped of its ornament and restored to its everyday function, it seemed dark and serviceable, an office of state rather than a seat of ceremony, the heart of efficiency rather than elegance.
His first surprise was a rude one. Alfred was there, and Lord Gunthar, but instead of Lord Stephan Peres, Boniface Crownguard of Foghaven sat in the third council seat. When Sturm entered the room, Boniface leaned forward, his face expressionless but his eyes cold and absorbed as an archer's on the target.
Sturm completed the three ceremonial bows distractedly, and in the third of the six formal addresses, he stumbled over the word "impeccable" and blushed deeply.
It was not according to the Measure, this sloppiness. It had been too long since he attended to ritual, and there was Boniface besides…
"You presume much, Sturm Brightblade," Alfred observed, "to request audience with this council. After all, you are not yet of the Order."
"True enough, Lord Alfred," Sturm agreed. He found it difficult not to look at Boniface. "And yet on Yule night, when Lord Wilderness challenged me and I decided to embark, it was at the urging of the Order and with its blessings. I thought it… proper… that I should answer in turn to its judgments."
"What you think is… 'proper,' Sturm Brightblade, is not necessarily by the Measure," Boniface remarked, his voice dry and cold. He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands elegantly across his chest. "But we of the council have an interest in what came to pass regarding your journey to the Southern Darkwoods. And so, given these extraordinary circumstances, the Council… indulges your testimony."
"For that I am most grateful," Sturm replied, recovering in the intricate dance of deference and courtesy. "And I might welcome the Lord Boniface to a place upon the High Council, expressing the hope that his appointment was in… happy circumstance."
There was a long pause, in which the three council members glanced uneasily at one another.
"Lord Stephan is elsewhere," Alfred replied. "Be seated."
Sturm looked in puzzlement from face to face, waiting for further tidings of his old friend, for the High Justice's explanation. But Lord Alfred averted his glance, leaning to whisper something in the ear of Boniface, who nodded vigorously. Gunthar was the only member of the council who would regard the lad directly. His quick, almost undetectable wink was reassuring, though it revealed nothing.
Sturm cleared his throat. "I suppose," he began, "that I should begin with my news of Vertumnus."
And he told it all, or almost all, trusting in the truth and the judgment of at least two who sat on the council. He told how he had ventured through the maze of a ghostly castle, through bandits and hostile villagers into a wood of illusions, guarded by mythical creatures and mysterious, deceptive paths.
He told his story, scarcely mentioning the various ambushes, snares, and traps he had encountered on his journey to and from the Darkwoods, nor did he speak of Jack Derry or Mara, though he wasn't certain why he kept his friends from the recounting. Three pairs of eyes were fixed on him in the telling, and when he finished, the council hall settled into a thick, uncomfortable silence.
"Well," Lord Boniface began, with a sidelong glance at Lords Alfred and Gunthar. "I suppose a certain honesty lies in any account of failure."
"More than that is revealed in this telling," Lord Gunthar protested, turning to Boniface in irritation. "And if the Lord Boniface were… more seasoned in matters of the council, he would realize the virtues and merit of the lad's journey."
"Perhaps the Lord Gunthar would care to instruct me," Boniface replied ironically, addressing his words to Sturm as he pivoted in his chair. "The boy was sent to the Southern Darkwoods to meet with Lord Wilderness on the first night of spring, there to resolve a mysterious challenge. By his own admission, Sturm fulfilled only the first of his duties-to reach the Southern Darkwoods. No matter that he might as well have gathered mushrooms or… consorted with fairies."
He smiled cruelly, and with a deft swordsman's movement, drew forth his dagger and began to pare his fingernails.
Sturm's jaw dropped. Setting aside the Measure with the same recklessness that had guided his sword against the draconian on the banks of the Vingaard, he turned to his antagonist.
"Mushrooms and fairies are less… nightgrown and unbelievable than what I did see, m'lords. For I saw one of the Order… a renowned Knight of the Sword… in dark conspiracy against me, and for reasons that I know not!"
The hall was ominously silent. A servant's broom rustled over the stairwell outside the door, and an incongruous owl hooted in astonishment somewhere in the eaves of the castle. The Solamnic Lords didn't move, and Sturm thought of Castle di Caela, of its marbled monuments to family and folly, as he told the story anew.
This time he left nothing out. Jack Derry emerged in the tale, with all his unstudied know-how, and the elf maiden Mara in her petulance and music and her odd devotion to a cowardly spider. For the first time, Sturm mentioned the druidess, the name Ragnell stirring old memories on the faces of the council.
But through all his story one name returned again and again, from the moment the door of Castle di Caela closed behind him all the way to the last words of Tivok, the draconian assassin.
Boniface it was. "Grimbane." Lord Boniface of Foghaven, Solamnic Knight of the Sword.
Conspirator. Traitor to the Measure.
It was as though the world had stopped. After a minute's silence, in which nothing whatsoever spoke or sounded or even stirred, Lord Alfred cleared his throat.
"These," he intoned, "are the most ominous of charges, Master Sturm Brightblade."
"Charges for which," burst in Lord Boniface, "I shall demand satisfaction!"
Angrily the swordsman pushed away from the table, knocking over his chair and scattering paper and leather-bound volumes of the Measure. He drew his sword and stalked to the center of the room, where he turned and faced them all-his accuser and the council members who had heard the story.
"I believe, Lord Alfred," Boniface announced, his voice quivering with emotion, "that in the sixteenth volume of the encoded Measure, on the twenty-second page in the third article, it is related that the Order of the Sword, which takes its Measure from affairs of courage and heroics, enjoins all members thereof to accept the challenge of combat for the honor of knighthood. I believe, Lord Alfred, that the honor of knighthood has been impugned."