Their political maneuvering was like a great game of khas, a game that was a favorite with Derek. Edwin had never much cared for khas, or for politics, but he understood that with Castle Crownguard facing imminent siege and Lord Gunthar-the nominal head of the High Council-presumably safe on Sancrist Isle, Derek was on the verge of losing the game. Edwin had the unhappy feeling-though he tried to rid himself of it-that losing at politics meant more to Derek than losing his family’s castle and possibly his own life.
“Has there been word from Sancrist?” Edwin asked.
Now it was Derek who looked away. His shoulders slumped slightly, though only Edwin saw this. The fury in the older knight’s eyes, though, was plain to any who looked his way. “None,” he snarled softly. “Gunthar must surely know our plight. He’s holding back, hoping I will fail!”
“You do him an injustice!” Edwin said. “How can you think that?”
Derek looked at his brother sharply. There was no missing the unspoken accusation in the question: Derek would have done the same by Gunthar-if not worse- were the tables turned.
“He would do anything to keep me from becoming Grand Master,” Derek growled. “Even withhold reinforcements. But it won’t work.” He stared back at his castle, eyeing it as if it were a rook on a khas-board. “Mark me, the day will come when Gunthar rues all he’s done to thwart me.”
They stood on the battlements together, neither saying more. Strangers were often amazed to discover that Derek and Edwin Crownguard were of the same blood. Derek was serious, dour and brooding, while Edwin’s brow was clear, his eyes bright and guileless. “Naivet,” some called behind his back.
In olden times, it had been the custom that a lord’s firstborn son became his heir. His second son, with no lands to inherit, often entered the priesthood. Of course, there had been no priesthood since the Cataclysm, but it was a standing joke among the knights that Edwin may as well have been a cleric. Besides believing the ancient tales, he spent much of his time in the old chapel, where-he claimed-he found inner peace.
Derek scoffed at this notion. He would have never tolerated such behavior in anyone but his brother, and he had always hoped Edwin would grow out of it. Now, looking at Edwin-so blissfully free of the burdens lordship had placed on Derek-the older knight realized that Edwin would never change. And though some snickered at Edwin Crownguard and called him simple, Derek sometimes wondered if what others took for Edwin’s naivete wasn’t instead a clarity of vision Derek himself had never possessed.
“Ho! Look to the plains!”
The cry came from a young Knight of the Crown atop the tall Northeast Tower. He pointed afield. Derek, Edwin and the other knights turned and stared in shock. For a moment, all were silent, then one of the knights cursed softly.
“Virkhus and his legions preserve us,” Edwin whispered. His fingers touched Trumbrand, his ancient sword.
Derek said nothing; he only stared toward the cloud-dotted horizon.
In the distance, black and curling with the chill wind, a thick plume of smoke had begun to rise.
*****
By midday, Castle Crownguard’s inner ward was filled with refugees, most terrified beyond words. Eventually, the knights found a man not maddened by fear, and brought him to Derek in the keep’s Great Hall.
“Linbyr of Archester, a tanner,” heralded Sir Winfrid, the seneschal. He motioned for a portly, balding man to enter the hall.
Derek looked up from the great war table, with its map of Solamnia and markers representing the knights and the assumed locations of the Highlords’ armies. As he studied the peasant in the ruddy firelight, he twisted one tip of his long brown moustache between his fingers. Linbyr stared back scornfully.
Unused to seeing such contempt in a mere commoner, Derek flushed with anger. “Don’t stand there wasting my time! Out with it,” he growled. “What ill befell you and your fellows?”
Linbyr was grim. “What ill? I’ll tell you, my lord,” he said, his voice thick. “We trusted your kind to protect us, that’s what ill.”
Derek half-rose, balling his hand into a fist, then checked himself. He couldn’t let himself be baited; it was beneath him. Still, he spoke with enough rage to give Linbyr pause. “What do you mean by that?”