The Will of the Triad
Chapel of Resounding Justice, 15th of Ches, 1362 DR, highsun
The captain busied Gaheris with chores around the walled chapel all morning. After clearing the dishes from breakfast (simple wooden trenchers to hold a simple meal of oats and sausage, which he had wolfed down with gusto) he was set to cleaning around the building. He was just finishing sweeping out the sanctuary and considering when the garrison might take luncheon when the sound of horses outside the gate made him look up.
Several men in armor prominently bearing the warhammer and scales of Tyr rode up to the chapel’s open gate, their leader, a tall man in plate, dismounting as Captain Whytstone strode forth to meet them. “Hail, Justiciar Valerius,” the captain said by way of greeting. “Welcome to the Chapel of Resounding Justice, in the name of Tyr.”
“Hail, Captain Whytstone,” responded the man as he strode into the courtyard, the captain falling into step with him. “Justice and mercy be upon you and your command. I see you have had troll trouble, judging by the carrion in the field outside. I trust all is well. Is this the boy?” He changed the subject, nodding toward where Gaheris stood, broom in hand in the doorway to the chapel sanctuary.
“He is, Justiciar, but circumstances have changed since I sent the dispatch.”
“He has told you the truth of his story, then?”
“That and more. Should we speak in private,” he asked, looking meaningfully at the boy observing from across the courtyard.
“Of course, Captain,” answered the senior knight, and followed him to his quarters while his retinue led their horses into the courtyard, Chaplain Buckman hurrying behind.
* * *
The two officers did not emerge until lunch was served. Knowing the chapel’s limitations, the visiting delegation had brought a spread with them. Presented with a plate, Gaheris again devoured his meal - even though he had been at the chapel for over a full day and had been regularly fed, habits die hard and one used to hunger doesn’t linger over food. The Justiciar wiped the corners of his stern mouth as the rest of the group finished and turned to regard the boy. “You are Gaheris, sometime known as Stedd Cormwyn. Captain Whytstone has relayed to me the story you told him. Have you anything to add?”
He hesitated. “No, my lord, I…”
“You needn’t address me that way, I am no noble.”
Gaheris nodded uncertainly. “As you say. No, I gave Captain Whytstone and Chaplain Buckman the complete truth.”
Valerius fixed him in his piercing gaze. “I see you believe that is so. This is good, but it presents me with a problem: How to deal with you, an admitted thief and yet favored of Tyr. You know that is what the vision of the warhammer means, not to mention the obvious blessings you displayed fighting the troll.”
He in fact had not known that was what the vision of Tyr’s warhammer meant, but thought it best to remain silent.
The justiciar continued. “There will be no corporal punishment. You received enough of that already at the hands of the Night Masks. You have committed no crimes against Sembia bar pickpocketing in Saerloon, and we clearly cannot send you back across the Dragon Reach.” Gaheris shuddered, knowing full well what would happen if he were returned to Westgate in chains. “Therefore, as Tyr has seen fit to call you, you will serve your penance to his church itself. Until your age of majority and three years thereafter, you will serve as assigned by your superiors, without the opportunity for honors or ranks. You will make restitution to those you have harmed, delivered anonymously by other Tyrrans in cases where this would put your life at risk. At the end of this time you will be free to choose your own path, but know that returning to crime will assuredly cost you Tyr’s blessings. Do you understand and accept this judgment, knowing your alternative is the Sembian authorities?”
Gaheris didn’t need to think on it for long. If he were turned over to Saerloon or to Westgate’s watch, the Night Masks would quickly learn he lived. “Yes, Justiciar. What must I do?”
Valerian smiled. “Good. The captain, chaplain, and I have discussed it, and at least for now believe that you can best be put to use here. With the passing of Ivor Moondragon, there is an opening for a guard, and Captain Whytstone can instruct you in the path of your new role.”
“If you’ll have me as a teacher,” the aasimar added quickly. The justiciar shot him a look.
“If that’s your judgment, I thank you,” Gaheris said uncertainly. “It beats some of the alternatives.” He thought back on the vision he had in the sanctuary.
“It is. While you must serve penance, I am also aware that you are in danger and your best defense is for your enemies to continue thinking you dead. I think at some future time you may be instrumental in bringing them to justice, but that time is not today.
“Now,” the justiciar continued, standing, “while we are here, we shall take service at the feet of Resounding Justice this evening and in the morning before setting out, but for now I would pay respects at the grave of Ivor Moondragon, who gave his life in the service of justice. Come, let us go outside.”
The chapel’s garrison and visiting clergy and soldiers filed out of the gate toward the simple headstone marking the resting place of the fallen guard, dug the day before. Gaheris brought up the rear as Miri Buckman fell back to speak to him.
“I’m glad that was the result, young Trollbane,” she said with a thin smile. “We’ll make a good Tyrran out of you yet.”
“I hope so,” drawled Samson, one of the other chapel guards walking just ahead of them. “Getting someone else crazy enough to live out here usually takes longer.”
The chaplain cuffed him on the back of the head.
* * *
With the chapel full to overflowing, tents in the courtyard and field outside were the order of the evening. Captain Whytstone moved into the now-empty bunk in the barracks while Justiciar Valerius took over his quarters. The chaplain did not move, and everyone else camped. Resounding Justice’s statue-body glowed a soft blue light that filled the courtyard - beautiful in its way, but also difficult to sleep under. With a cloak pulled over his head, Gaheris eventually managed it.
Gaheris’ vision of Tyr and the Court returned again. This time, the Maimed God stood before the Court already holding his hammer.
“Did you know?” Gaheris’ question was half-curious, half-accusatory.
“That the troll would come? I had strong reason to believe so, but not even we can see the future with certainty. Or perhaps you mean what the Justiciar’s judgment would be. That, for certain, for do you think you are the only one to whom I send visions?”
“Those, and what I would do.”
“You had given strong indication,” Tyr responded with a smile. “I do not bestow power lightly, and am rarely wrong.”
“So was this all just to save the chapel?”
“Oh, by the Heavens, no,” laughed the Maimed God, leaning on the hammer’s haft with his good hand. “I have reason to believe you will be of unique future use. If this was all, I could have counted on you to stab the troll in the back, empowered or not.”
“Future use? What do you mean?”
“You haven’t guessed? Learn what the good captain and chaplain have to teach you. You will know when it comes.”
Realization dawned. “Do you mean me to go back?”
“The future is in motion. You may someday; Westgate could certainly use a dose of justice. But even if not, the skills you will develop and those you have will be a rare and potent combination. Return to sleep. The burden of your penance will not be easy.”
Again, the vision faded, the nimbus-limned warhammer the last image to vanish.
