Part 5 (2/2)

”We are a half-day's ride northwest of Istar, a safe place, though we should not stay too long. You need to be on your way, and I have to return - ”

”You are RETURNING to Istar? To the Games?”

”Of course. I was on leave of absence to take Sylverlin's body to his kin,” Nelk said grimly. ”His kin were jackals.

They enjoyed what was left. You did me that favor, Knight.

Sylverlin had discovered my secret and threatened to revealme. Sylverlin is dead and my secret is safe ... for a time.

Only you know that I am a cleric, and I doubt you would be willing to inform Brother Gurim, would you?”

Tremaine did not reply.

Nelk nodded. ”I thought not. It may be that Brother Gurim or Arack or some other will discover that I have been saving lives, but, until then, I will continue to serve the G.o.ddess. There will be more like you. The inquisitors are very busy men.” The elf smiled, looking much like Sylverlin at that moment. ”If you are strong enough to ride, I recommend you do. Best not to take chances.” He tossed the reins of both Arryl's steed and the pack animal to the confused and bewildered knight.

”I refuse to thank you.”

”I do what I must.” Nelk waited until Tremaine had mounted before adding, ”If you could forego wearing your armor until you are farther from Istar, I would recommend it.”

”I ... understand.”

Nelk took a tighter hold of the reins in his hand. ”May the blessings of Kinthalas and Chislev be upon you, Arryl Tremaine.”

The Solamnian glanced up at the mention of the latter name. Chislev was a neutral G.o.ddess who had a fondness for the elven race. She was the G.o.ddess of nature, of life in the forest.

Nelk met his gaze. ”Yes, I will not deny that my own blood, however darkened, might also be responsible for my desire to maintain the balance of life.”

Turning his horse, the cleric started to depart. Arryl, though, felt he needed something solid to cling to, something to explain the inexplicable.

”Nelk, wait. I need to know ... Fen told me ... Nelk is not your true name, is it?”

”No, Sir Knight.” Bitterness crept into the elf's voice.

He halted his steed. ”It was given to me when I was cast out. There is no direct translation from my tongue, but it essentially means 'of no faith, lacking in belief.' To my people, that name was the greatest punishment they could lay upon me.”

”How could they - ”

”By their beliefs, I was ever a betrayer of the way.

Even though I still followed the G.o.ds, I did not follow them in the manner elves deemed proper. In that, my people are more like Istar's clerics than they want to admit.” The elf raised his good hand in farewell ... and blessing. ”May your own beliefs stay strong, Knight of the Sword. But may they not blind you to truth.”

Arryl Tremaine remained where he was until the elf had vanished over a nearby hill. The knight was still at a loss concerning the elf, who was and was not everything Arryl would have expected of a wors.h.i.+per of the Queen of Darkness.

To Tremaine's surprise, he found that despite the corruption and insanity that he had seen in the holy city, his faith WAS still strong ... and it was the dark elf's doing.

Arryl didn't understand exactly how, yet. Perhaps he never would. But Nelk had been right. From now on, Arryl would champion his faith and help fight injustice - wherever he found it. ”May Paladine watch over YOU as well, Nelk,” he called as he mounted his own steed. ”You are right.

Someday, we WILL meet again.”

For he intended, someday, to return to Istar, holy Istar.

Kender Stew Nick O'Donohoe Moran moved a swordsman forward, feinting the game piece sideways to prevent ambush. ”Your mercenary is endangered.”

Rakiel's mouth quirked. ”For the first time in our lives.” He stretched a slender, thinly muscled arm out and withdrew the mercenary down an alley.

They were playing Draconniel, said to have been invented by Huma himself to keep knights ready for war.

The game grid was laid over a map of Xak Tsaroth, and the dragon side was moving small raiding parties through the back streets, down the storm drains, and inside market carts. Moran, accustomed to the open play favored by Solamnic Knights, was intrigued by Rakiel's underhanded style - and a little appalled.

He brought a second swordsman forward. ”I'm preparing a sortie down Grimm Street.”

”Your frankness does you credit.” Rakiel withdrew a previously concealed bowman from Grimm Street.

”Perhaps it's just as well that you honor-bound knights no longer fight wars.”

Once the cleric's caustic remark would have cut through Moran. A long, thin man, Moran awakened morning after morning in a lonely, wide bed, knowing that he had spent his life training for a war he would never fight: a grand and glorious war on dragonback, a war such as the great Huma had fought. No more. The dragons were driven away. Istar was bringing ”peace” to the world. He had thrown himself into drilling squire novices with a ferocity that had earned him the name ”Mad Moran.”

Now in his fifties, ”Mad Moran” was a legend, parodied for his sternness, revered for his teaching. He seldom smiled. He never laughed.

A door, opening far below, distracted Rakiel from the game. He peered out the tower window. ”Someone's coming in. More novices?” He said the word with distaste.

Istar was beginning to resent the Solamnic Knights' claims to piety, as well as, perhaps, their wealth.

Moran fingered his moustache thoughtfully. ”The boys are not due till tomorrow, and I've interviewed them all and read their references.” He considered who the late caller might be. ”The meat and fruit and other supplies were delivered yesterday, and the cook quit this morning.”

All sensible cooks quit before drill season. ”Probably someone volunteering for knighthood,” he decided.

Rakiel snorted. ”You're dreaming. These days the volunteers go to the clerics. The knights only get disinherited second sons and,” he added with a hint of a sneer, ”the needy poor, the people who think that the knights' treasury will open up to them when they sign on.”

Moran winced. Rakiel was a ”guest,” here in the Manor of the Measure in Xak Tsaroth to prepare a report for the clerics on knighthood and training methods - or sohe claimed. Actually, he never missed an opportunity to discredit the knights, and he seemed to take an uncommon interest in the treasury.

”These novices aren't like that,” Moran said stiffly.

”Not after gold, I grant you, but what about that first one, Saliak? Power hungry, if anyone ever was.”

”His father's a knight,” Moran said. ”His son will learn to lead.” In fact, the father was impoverished and bitter, and that had affected Saliak, the son. Moran had found Saliak arrogant, self-centered, and - Moran suspected - a trace cruel. Without the discipline of the knights, the boy's obvious talent and courage would never come to anything.

”So Saliak will learn to lead,” Rakiel said dubiously.

”Well, 'lead us not into evil,' as has been said. And what about Steyan? A tall and clumsy oaf of a boy.”

Moran waved that aside. ”I'm tall. I was clumsy. He's quiet and a little sensitive. He'll do just fine.”

Steyan had won Moran's heart when, instead of asking first at the interview about swords or armor, the boy had blurted out, ”Is it hard seeing friends die? I'd want to save them.”

Moran had said simply, ”Sometimes you can't.”

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