As soon as the monk spotted it in the grand garden on the shores of Lake Midai his heart filled with serenity and the contentment that could only come from accepting oneself as a part of something larger, of something eternal. The seed for that tree, the Tree-Gem, had been given to Kane and his fellow heroes by Bahamut, the platinum dragon, the greatest wyrm of all, as a tribute to their efforts in defeating the Witch-King and his demonic associates and destroying the Wand of Orcus.
The White Tree stood as a symbol of that victory, and more than that, it served as a magical ward preventing creatures of the Abyssal planes from walking across the Bloodstone Lands. That tree showed Kane that their efforts had created not just a temporary victory, but a lasting blessing on the land he called home.
As he looked upon it, Kane reached to his side and picked up his walking stick, which had been fashioned from a branch of that magical tree. Smooth as polished stone and as white as the day he had taken it from the tree, for the dirt of no road could gray it, the jo staff was as hard and solid as adamantine, and in Kane's skilled hands, it could shatter stone.
With a thought, Kane veered the magic carpet toward the tree, gliding in to a smooth landing on the ground before its trunk. He stayed in his seated position, legs crossed, hands on his upturned thighs, the jo stick laid across his lap, as he offered prayers to the tree, and thanks to Bahamut, Lord of Goodly Dragons, for his wondrous gift.
"Well, by the blessings of the drunken god's double visions!" came a roar, drawing the monk from his meditation. He rose and turned, not surprised at all when Friar Dugald, nearly four hundred pounds of man-flesh, barreled into him.
Kane didn't move an inch against that press, which would have sent mighty warriors flying backward.
Dugald wrapped his meaty arms around the monk and slapped him hard on the back. Then he moved Kane back to arm's length—or rather, as he extended his arms, he moved himself back to arm's length—for again, the monk proved immovable.
"It has been too long!" Dugald proclaimed. "My friend, you spend all of your days wandering the land, or in the monastery to the south, and forget your friends here in Bloodstone Village."
"I carry you with me," Kane replied. "You travel in my prayers and thoughts. Never are any of you forgotten."
Dugald's flabby, bald head bobbed enthusiastically at that, and Kane could tell from the way he exaggerated his motions, and from the smell of him, that the friar had been consuming the blood of the vine. Dugald had found a kindred spirit within the Order of the God Ilmater in the study and patronage of St. Dionysus, the patron of such spirits, and Dugald was quite the loyal disciple.
Kane reminded himself that his own vows of discipline against such potent drink had been his conscious choice. He must not judge others based on his personal standards.
He turned away from Dugald to regard the tree, its spreading limbs framed by the quiet lake behind it. It had grown quite a bit in the two years since Kane's last visit to Bloodstone Village, and though the tree was only twelve years old, it already stood more than thirty feet, with branches wide and strong—branches it occasionally offered to the heroes that they might fashion items of power from the magical wood.
"Too long you've been gone," Dugald remarked.
"It is my way."
"Well, how am I to argue with that?" the friar asked.
Kane merely shrugged.
"You have come for the ceremony?"
"To speak with Gareth, yes."
Dugald eyed him with suspicion and asked, "What do you know?"
"I know that his choice of hanging a medal about the neck of a drow is something other than expected."
"More than Kane have said as much," Dugald said. "And this drow's a strange one, even by the standards of his lot, so they're saying. Do you know anything of him? Gareth knows only the stories coming from the wall."
"And yet he will offer this one the title of Bloodstone Hero, and award his companion status as a Knight of the Order?"
"Apprentice Knight," Dugald corrected.
"A temporary equivocation."
Dugald conceded the point with a nod. No one who had attained the title of apprentice knight had not then gone on, within two years, to full knight status—except of course for Sir Liam of Halfling Downs, who had gone missing, and was presumed slain, on the road home after attending his ceremony of honor.
"You have reason to believe that this drow is not worthy, my friend?" Dugald asked.
"He is a dark elf."
Dugald sighed and assumed a pensive, almost accusing stare.
"Yes, we have the sisters of Eilistraee as evidence," Kane replied. "It is a precept of the Monastery of the Yellow Rose to judge the actions and not the heritage of any person. But he is a drow, who arrived here only recently. His history is unknown and I have not heard a single whisper that he serves Eilistraee."
"General Dannaway of the Vaasan Gate is meeting with the king and Lady Christine even now," Dugald replied. "He speaks well of the exploits of this Jarlaxle character and the soon-to-be-apprentice knight."
"Formidable warriors."
"So it seems."
"Skill with the blade is the least important asset for a knight of the order," Kane said.
"Every knight can lay waste to his share," Dugald countered.
"Purity of purpose, adherence to conscience, and the discipline to strike or to hold in the best interests of Bloodstone," Kane came right back, citing the crux of the Bloodstone knight's pledge. "Honorable General Dannaway will attest to their feats in killing monsters beyond the Vaasan Gate, no doubt, but he knows little of the character of these two."
Dugald looked at his friend curiously. "I'll be guessing that Kane does, then?"
The monk shrugged. Before his journey to Bloodstone Village, he had spoken to Hobart Bracegirdle, the halfling leader of the war gang the Kneebreakers, who had been operating from the Vaasan Gate in recent days. Hobart had offered a few clues to the intriguing duo, Jarlaxle and Entreri, but nothing substantial enough for Kane to yet draw any conclusions. In truth, the monk had no reason to believe that the two were anything less than their actions at the gate and in the battle outside of Palishchuk seemed to indicate. But he knew, too, that those actions had not been definitive.
"I fear King Gareth's choice regarding these newcomers is premature, that is all," he said.
The friar nodded his concession of that point, then turned and swept his arm out to the north, where stood the grand palace of Gareth and Christine. Still under construction after a decade of work, the palace was comprised of the original Tranth home, the residence of the Baron of Bloodstone, expanded in width and with perpendicular wings running forward on either end. Most of the continuing work on the palace involved the minor details, the finishing touches, the decorative parapets and stained-glass windows. The people of Bloodstone Village—indeed, the people and artisans of the entire region known as the Bloodstone Lands—wanted the palace of their king to be reflective of his deeds and reputation. With Gareth Dragonsbane, that would prove a tall order indeed, and one that would take all the artisans of the land years to fulfill.
Side by side, the two went to see their friends. They entered without questions, past guards who bowed in deference at the appearance of the ragged-looking man. Anyone who did not know the reputation of Grandmaster Kane would have no way of looking at the man and suspecting any such thing. He was past middle age, thin, even skinny, with fraying white hair and beard. He wore rags and no visible jewelry other than a pair of magical rings. His belt was a simple length of rough rope, his sandals worn and threadbare. Only his walking stick, white like the wood of the tree from which it was made, seemed somewhat remarkable, and that alone would not be enough to clue anyone in to the truth of the shabby-looking creature.