“If s just a bauble. It means nothing to me!”
He made ready to yank the jewel from its silver chain.
The priestess stopped him.
“Wear the cursed jewel. It is the Dark Queen’s wish and pleasure that you do so. May it serve to remind you of this warning. Think of my words every time you look upon the jewel, Steel Brightblade. She-of-Many-Faces has many eyes. She sees all. There is nothing you can hide from her.
“Your heart is hers, your body is hers. But not your soul. Not now....
“But it will be.” The priestess pressed her wrinkled face so near the young man’s that he felt her fetid breath hot upon his cheek. “And, in the meantime, Steel Uth Matar Brightblade, you will be of inestimable value to your queen.”
The dry and withered lips kissed Steel upon his brow.
Shivering, sweating, he forced himself to hold still beneath the awful touch.
“Your helm and breastplate lie upon the altar. Both have been blessed by the Dark Queen. Stand, Sir Knight, and put them on.”
Steel stared at the priestess in astonishment, then dawning joy. The priestess, with that secret smile, turned and left him. Parting the black curtains, she disappeared back into the innermost regions of the temple.
Two boys, in their teens, entered through the front temple doors. From now on, the younger would be his page, the older his squire. They stood silently, respectfully, waiting to assist the knight with his armor. Both boys gazed at Steel with admiration and envy, no doubt dreaming of their own future investiture, seeing it embodied in him.
Shaking, barely able to stand, Steel reverently approached the altar. One hand, his right, rested on the black breastplate, adorned with the death lily.
The other hand, his left, stole to the jewel around his neck. His eyes closed.
Tears burned beneath the lids. Angrily, he started, once again, to the rip the jewel from his neck.
His hand slid from it, fell limply upon the altar.
The trumpet call sounded, twice more.
In the courtyard of Storm’s Keep, Lord Ariakan stood, waiting to knight the dark paladin with his father’s sword.
Steel Uth Matar Brightblade, Knight of the Lily, son of Sturm Brightblade, Knight of the Crown, son of Dragon Highlord Kitiara Uth Matar.
Lifting the helm, with its skull-like grin, Steel placed it on his head. Then, kneeling before the altar, he offered a grateful prayer to his queen, Takhisis.
Rising proudly, extending his arms, he motioned for his squire to buckle on the black and shining breastplate.
Book 2: The Legacy
Chapter One
Caramon stood in a vast chamber carved of obsidian. It was so wide, its perimeter was lost in shadow, so high its ceiling was obscured in shadow. No pillars supported it. No lights lit it. Yet light there was, though none could name its source. It was a pale light, white—not yellow. Cold and cheerless, it gave no warmth.
Though he could see no one in the chamber, though he could hear no sound disturb the heavy silence that seemed centuries old, Caramon knew he was not alone. He could feel the eyes watching him as they had watched him long ago, and so he stood stolidly, waiting patiently until they deemed it time to proceed.
He guessed what they were doing, and he smiled, but only inwardly. To those watching eyes, the big man’s face remained smooth, impassive. They would see no weakness in him, no sorrow, no bitter regret. Though memory was reaching out to him, its hand was warm, its touch gentle. He was at peace with himself, and had been for twenty-five years.
As if reading his thoughts—which, Caramon supposed, they might well have been—those present in the vast chamber suddenly revealed themselves. It was not that the light grew brighter, or a mist lifted, or the darkness parted, for none of that happened. Caramon felt more as though he were the one who had suddenly entered, though he had been standing there upwards of a quarter hour. The two robed figures that appeared before him were a part of this place just like the white, magical light, the ages-old silence. He wasn’t—he was an outsider and would be one forever.
“Welcome once again to our tower, Caramon Majere,” said a voice.
Caramon bowed, saying nothing. He couldn’t—for the life of him—remember die man’s name.
“Justarius,” the man said, smiling pleasantly. “Yes, the years have been long since we last met, and our last meeting was during a desperate hour. It is small wonder you have forgotten me. Please, be seated.” A heavy, carved, oaken chair materialized beside Caramon. “You have journeyed long and are weary, perhaps.”
Caramon started to state that he was just fine, that a journey like this was nothing to a man who had been over most of the continent of Ansalon in his younger days. But at the sight of the chair with its soft, inviting cushions, Caramon realized that the journey had been rather a long one—longer than he remembered it. His back ached, his armor appeared to have grown heavier, and it seemed that his legs just weren’t holding up their end of things anymore.
Well, what do you expect, Caramon asked himself with a shrug. I’m the proprietor of an inn now. I’ve got responsibilities. Someone’s got to sample the cooking... . Heaving a rueful sigh, he sat down, shifting his bulk about until he was settled comfortably.
“Getting old, I guess,” he said with a grin.
“It comes to all of us,” Justarius answered, nodding his head. “Well, most of us,” he amended, with a glance at the figure who sat beside him. Following his gaze, Caramon saw the figure throw back its rune-covered hood to reveal a familiar face—an elven face.
“Greetings, Caramon Majere.”
“Dalamar,” returned Caramon steadily with a nod of his head, though the grip of memory tightened a bit at the sight of the black-robed wizard.