Free The Reign Of Istar by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

twelve copies of that book, one for each trainer of squires plus the original.”
    He had unintentionally dropped the Voice and Mask, and immediately brought them back.
     “Swordplay is nothing. If you want to be a knight, there is the Oath and there is the
     Measure, and they are all. The Oath is four words, the Measure thirty-seven three-
     hundred-page volumes. Which is more important?”
    “The Measure,” Tarli said firmly, then added, just as firmly, “unless it's the Oath.”
    Moran pointed a single finger at the boy. “EST SULARUS OTH MITHAS. My honor is my life.”
     Tarli looked at him blankly. “Isn't everybody's?”
    Moran stared at him a long time to be sure he wasn't joking. Rakiel regarded them both
     with amusement, which he didn't bother to hide.
    “Put your gear in the barracks downstairs, Tarli,” Moran said. “Classes begin tomorrow.”
    “Yes.” Tarli added quickly, “Sire.” He bowed, bumping the writing desk and bouncing the
     Draconniel pieces. As he headed toward the door, he gave Rakiel a nasty whack with the duffel.
    Tarli," Moran began.
    The boy whirled, knocking over a candlestick. In picking up the candlestick, he shattered
     the water jug on the dresser.
    Moran regarded him gravely. “The book.”
    “Oh. Right.” Tarli handed it over. “I'd like to read it.”
    They could hear his dragged duffel bump behind him all the way down the stairs.
    Rakiel stared at Moran in amazement and disgust. “Surely you're not admitting him?”
    “He admitted himself.”
    Rakiel laughed, a nasty noise. “Are the knights as desperate as all that?”
    Moran was looking down the stairs. “The knights choose first for honor, and second for
     noble family.” It hadn't always been true.
    “But you don't even know his father.” The cleric's lip curled. “HE may not even know his
     father.”
    “Then I'll judge the boy and not his family.”
    Rakiel sniffed. “It's insupportable. He's not only common, he's probably a bastard.”
    “Not nearly as much as a cleric I could name,” Moran muttered, well beneath his breath.
    Rakiel was ranting on. “And so short. He hardly looks human. Do you suppose he's ...”
    Moran, staring out the window, said absently, “Loraine was very short.”
    *****
    IT WAS THE HOTTEST SUMMER ANYONE COULD REMEMBER. ALL THE TRAVELERS WHO HAD TARPS PUT THEM
     UP AND WERE LYING UNDER THEM. THE OTHERS TRUDGED AS FAR AS THE CITY WALLS AND LAY IN THE
     NARROW MIDDAY SHADOWS.
    ONLY MORAN RODE ON, A THIN, TIRED KNIGHT PULLING A CART THAT HELD A SWORD, A SHIELD, AND A
     CORPSE. THE BODY HAD BEEN REVERENTLY WRAPPED IN A BLANKET. MORAN HAD KEPT IT COOL WITH
     WATER FROM HIS PRECIOUS TRAVEL RATION. HE PASSED THE OBELISK AT THE EDGE OF TOWN, GLANCED AT THE FINAL LINE ON IT:
    THE GODS REWARD US IN THE GRACE OF OUR HOME HE TURNED AWAY.
    MORAN RODE PAST THE NEARLY COMPLETED TEMPLE OF MISHAKAL. SEVERAL WANDERERS GAWKED AT IT,
     ALL OF THEM MORE IMPRESSED WITH THE STONEWORK THAN A SINGLE DUSTY KNIGHT OF SOLAMNIA.
    HE KNOCKED AT A SHABBY WOODEN BUILDING. ITS STONE REAR WALL WAS A SIDE WALL OF THE
     ENTRANCE GATE FOR THE STAIRCASE CALLED “THE PATHS OF THE DEAD.” A YOUNG GIRL ANSWERED.
    “I'M LOOKING FOR ALWYN THE GRAVER,” SAID MORAN.
    “HE'S BOUGHT INTO HIS OWN WARES,” THE GIRL SAID SIMPLY. “THE BUSINESS IS MINE NOW. I'M
     LORAINE.”
    MORAN LOOKED AT HER AND THOUGHT AT FIRST, “NOTHING BUT A CHILD.” HE LOOKED AT HER EYES AND
     QUICKLY REALIZED THAT SHE WAS A WOMAN - JUST GROWN SHORTER THAN MOST.
    LORAINE COULDN'T SEE OVER THE CART SIDES. SHE CLIMBED ONE OF THE WHEELS, STARED IN, THEN
     GASPED AT THE SIGHT OF THE SWORD AND SHIELD. “WHO IS IT?” SHE WAS LIKE A CHILD AT A PUPPET
     SHOW, WAITING FOR THE NEXT SURPRISE.
    HER SHINING RED HAIR SPILLED OVER HER SHOULDERS AS SHE LEANED IN, WATCHING MORAN UNWRAP
     THE BODY: TALISIN, HIS BLACK MOUSTACHE EVEN BLACKER AGAINST HIS ICE- WHITE SKIN. THE BACK
     OF HIS HELM WAS SPLIT IN HALF.
    MORAN SAID DULLY, “THE