The Stories of Elaine Cunningham

THE KNIGHTS OF SAMULAR

17 Flamerule, the Year of the Enchanted Trail (925 DR) Griffenwing Keep, a mountain fortress near Ascalhorn

The demon was not at all what Renwick Caradoon had expected.

Massive bat wings, scales the color of molten lava, terror and evil incarnate-the grimoire had hinted darkly of such things. Renwick, given his admittedly small talent for magic, would have been content with a whiff of brimstone and a tentacle or two. To his surprise, the creature standing in a circle of painstakingly drawn symbols looked more like a mildly disgruntled scholar than an agent of evil.

"Have I the honor of addressing the great incubus Yamarral, Lord of Chaos and Carnality?" Renwick inquired cautiously.

In response, the demon held up the book he'd been perusing, displaying the scene vividly painted on night-black parchment. The illustration was moving, and a glance at the writhing figures was all the answer Renwick required.

"You cannot summon a demon without speaking his true name," Yamarral observed as he tucked the book into his plain brown tunic. "Do you doubt the laws of magic, or is this your notion of polite conversation?"

Common enough words, and the clipped cadence indicated a very human state of annoyance, but ah, the voice! Music lurked in those deep, rounded tones, and the accent, both charming and elusive, seemed strangely enhanced by the demon's nondescript human appearance. Renwick had heard it said that men were seduced by their eyes and women by their ears. By that measure, innocent and impressionable little Nimra was all but damned.

No, Renwick told himself sternly. Nimra was descended from the Guardians of Ascalhorn. She was a true scion of her illustrious forebears, and a paladin's daughter. She had grown up at her grandsire's knee, her eyes shining with wonder as Maerstar spun tales of magical treasures the Caradoon family had collected for generations. The old bard had staggered out of the ruins of Ascalhorn with a single precious book, but his stories of the family legacy had set Nimra's soul aflame. Renwick had trained her for the coming task. She was resolved to see it through; she would survive with her virtue intact.

"I wish to strike a bargain," Renwick began.

Yamarral smirked. "And what boon do you offer me, little wizard? Perhaps you would teach me the art of patience? Clearly you have learned it well; while you labored over the summoning spell, Selune's crescent belly swelled with light three times, and three times did she give birth to moondark."

Actually, Renwick had been working toward this moment for much longer than three months. Only through long, difficult striving could he cast spells other wizards tossed about with ease. Summoning demons was a tricky business for anyone, and he was justly proud of this accomplishment. Still, the demon's mockery stung.

Renwick reached for the framed miniature on a nearby table and thrust it toward Yamarral's sneering face. "Save your insults for those who wish you ill, and save your pretty words for this."

"This" was Nimra, a slender, doe-eyed beauty in the first bloom of maidenhood. Thick braids of glossy brown hair framed a sweet, sun-browned face, and her simple green gown bared her arms and clung to budding curves. The little smile curving her lips gave her the look of a dryad caught in the midst of some small mischief. The portrait was a true and skillfully rendered likeness, and it had the desired effect.

Dark hunger flared in the demon's eyes. For one soul-staining moment, Renwick glimpsed the true nature of the summoned creature. He managed with difficulty to suppress a shudder.

"My brother's daughter, the child of his dissolute youth," he said. To his relief, his voice did not shake too badly. "My brother is the paladin Samular Caradoon. His duties often take him far from home, so the girl looks to me for direction. She wishes to learn Mystra's Art. I have promised to find her a suitable teacher."

"Ah." Yamarral nodded sagely. "And you would release me into your world so that I might… school her, in exchange for magic that would set your thoughts in proper order and place the mastery of magic within your grasp."

As summaries went, the demon's was flawless.

Renwick simply did not see things as other men did. To his eyes, symbols turned this way and that upon the page, rearranging themselves into unintelligible patterns that required long study to decrypt. His mind demanded that certain runes be written in certain colored inks or they would be perceived as something altogether different. There was nothing wrong with his memory, but his spells, once learned, were still unreliable, for he was likely to invert words and gestures. None of these troubles, however, lessened his ambition or dimmed his conviction that he was destined for great things. The notion of gaining mastery over his malady through a demon's magic pained him, as did the role he must play to convince Yamarral that he was a "worthy" ally, but some paths toward the greater good must needs pass through dark and dangerous places.

"A fair exchange, for you will not soon tire of the girl," Renwick promised. "She is as quick-witted as she is fair. Under your tutelage, she could become a wizard of great power. Through her, your dominion over these parts would be assured for many years to come."

"This has possibilities," Yamarral admitted. "And what form would your payment take?"

"A blood token."

The demon's brows flew upward. "Long years have passed since a mortal bound himself and his bloodline to my service! I had thought this knowledge lost since before the Ilythiiri took to tunneling into the dirt like badgers and calling themselves drow. But since you know something of my history, I assume you also know what befell those who treated with me?"

"Of course."

"Of course," Yamarral echoed with mock gravity. "And you hope to avoid this… how?"

"I am twin-born."

For long moments, demon and wizard regarded each other in silence. "Either you are not quite the fool you appear," Yamarral said softly, "or your folly exceeds all boundaries previously known to me."

A frisson of unease ran up Renwick's spine, but he refused to entertain doubt. Some mystical force bound the twin-born, inclining them toward a shared purpose. This was common knowledge; the demon assumed, as Renwick had intended him to, that Renwick meant to transfer any ill effects of this magic, as well as the legacy of demonic bondage, to Samular and his descendants. But Renwick had made long study of the twin-born tie and was confident in his knowledge of its strengths and weaknesses. If any man could stretch them in ways never before tested, it was he.

He cleared his throat. "You will have the traditional safeguards, naturally. Our bargain is void if you are returned to the Abyss by me or any other. I will possess whatever magic our bargain yields until the day you return to the Abyss, but any new spells or magical devices I might wish to create in the future will require either your consent, or the will of your blood-bound servants."

"By which you mean the paladin's pretty daughter and the demonspawn I intend to get on her." Yamarral lifted one brow, and his lascivious smile turned sly. "Since you know something of my history with mortals, you are no doubt aware that I breed only twin-born sons. They will look alike, but one will favor his sire. You won't know which one, of course. We are tossing the dice, you and I, with much riding on the outcome."

This was the moment Renwick had dreaded. Was it possible to lie to a demon? Could Yamarral hear the nervous quickening of his heart, smell the stench of falsehood in his sweat?

Renwick fashioned a smirk and set it firmly upon his lips. "Where it is written that the blood token must be held by only one heir at a time? And is it not possible that kinsmen, as well as descendants, could be bound by the blood-token pledge? Why could I not share the burden and the benefits with two others of my blood?"

Yamarral thought it over. "The thing has never been done, but I see no reason why it could not be as you say."

"Then let the token reside in three parts. I will claim one third of the token and derive from it the power I need for my daily work. The three parts, wielded with the agreement of three blood-bound, must unite to realize the token's full power. We will also divide among us the consequences of that power." Renwick shrugged. "Hardly the legacy the good paladin might desire, but no doubt his faith will sustain him through the dark times ahead."

Yamarral laughed delightedly. "You surprise me, Renwick Caradoon! I did not expect such vile treachery, and I mean that as a compliment."

"Taken as such," Renwick lied. He set Nimra's portrait down and picked up the ready parchment and quill. "Now, shall we discuss the particulars?"

29 Mirtul, the Year of the Banner (1368 DR)

Waterdeep

To a man whose height could be measured by a single hand-span, even a paladin's library was a dark and dangerous place.

Algorind stood at the edge of the writing table, glumly measuring the drop to the thick Calishite carpet. Six, perhaps seven times his current height. He could jump, but not without injury. And to what purpose? Where would he go, and how could he defend himself against the dangers his new size brought? The mouse that had scavenged a few stray crumbs from the floor before disappearing into the paneled wall was, relatively speaking, the size of a dire wolf.

Algorind has been left on the table earlier that afternoon to await the arrival of his host-or perhaps more accurately, his jailor. To occupy the time, he'd studied his surroundings with eyes that measured familiar things in new and often disturbing fashion.

Tapestries covered the walls with scenes from famous battles, woven in realistic hues of red and bronze. Whenever a draft rippled these hangings, the depicted figures seemed to quiver with impatience, as if eager to resume their slaughter. Twin gargoyles crouched atop the marble fireplace, demonic statues so skillfully carved that Algorind half expected to hear the sudden snap of unfurling bat wings. He was not much given to grim flights of fancy, but given his current size, everything in the luxurious study was monstrous in scale, and therefore slightly ominous.

The grim aspects, however, were less disturbing to Algorind than the opulence. The table on which he stood was fashioned from a single plank of Halruaan bilboa. That rare and costly wood also paneled the walls, frequently in exquisitely carved scenes. Leather-bound tomes filled tall bookshelves. A painting depicting the rollicking afterlife to be found in Tempus's fest hall covered the high ceiling. The silver drinking bowl on the table smelled of sugared wine and was big enough for Algorind to bathe in. The dainty spoon next to it, even though it was large enough to serve Algorind as a credible spade, looked ill suited to a warrior's hand. Algorind, raised and trained by the Knights of Samular in the austere fortress known as Summit Hill, found such riches puzzling and unseemly.

But who was he, of all men, to judge?

On impulse, Algorind knelt beside the spoon and peered into its polished silver bowl. He was slowly returning to his natural size, but did his disgrace leave a lingering stain? Was it written upon his countenance for all men to read?

His reflection stared somberly back, a miniature version of his former self, slightly distorted by the curve of the spoon but still the face he'd seen mirrored in the polished metal of his lost sword: a man not yet twenty years of age, with a steady, blue-eyed gaze and close-cropped hair nearly as curly and fair as a lamb's fleece. He was broad and strong from years of training and stern discipline, clad as simply as any farm lad. Out of respect, Algorind had set aside the pure white tabard bearing the Order's symbol: the scales of Tyr's justice, balanced upon the hammer of his judgment.

Tyr's judgment.

A new thought struck Algorind, one strange and powerful enough to rock him back on his heels. By Tyr's grace, even a fledgling paladin could learn the truth of a man's nature-including, perhaps, his own?

Algorind had never sought to weigh his own heart. He was not even sure this was possible! The Knights of Samular were a military order, not a monastic one. Action, not introspection, was the business of Summit Hall.

The need to know swept away all reservations. Algorind bowed his head in fervent, silent supplication. As he prayed, a sense of peace and quiet joy settled over him, as palpable as incense in a cloister. The troubling events of the last tenday faded into insignificance. Tyr was with him still.

As Algorind sank deeper into the healing calm, a strange image flooded his mind. Stunted fields brooded beneath a dark and lowering sky. Briars and noxious weeds grew in profusion, slowing choking out the last few wholesome plants. Brackish water collected in dips and hollows, and black-winged scavenger birds circled overhead in patient silence, awaiting their own grim harvest.

The vision jolted Algorind from his devotions. As he leaped to his feet, an enormous hand-a warrior's hand, gnarled with age and seamed with the scars of many battles-closed around him.

The young man instinctively reached for his sword but found only the mockery of an empty scabbard. Defenseless, he was jerked off the table and swept up to a great height.

A moment passed before he made sense of the huge, craggy visage before him. He was staring into the bright blue eyes of Sir Gareth Cormaeril, one of the greatest paladins of living memory.

"You were invoking Tyr."

The old knight's voice smote Algorind's ears like peals of thunder, like the judgment of Tyr Himself. Algorind's first impulse was to confide all to the great paladin-the unorthodox prayer, the disturbing vision that followed. But some instinct Algorind did not know he possessed urged him to keep his own council.

"I was praying," he admitted. The suspicion on Sir Gareth's face, magnified past the possibility of subtlety, required more, so he added, "I am deeply troubled by my recent failings."

Algorind's stern conscience rebelled at this evasion, but Sir Gareth seemed satisfied. He lowered Algorind to the table, then pulled up a deep chair and seated himself so that they were still eye to eye.

"You will have need of the god's counsel, and mine as well, if you hope for a favorable decision from the masters of Summit Hall," he said briskly. "We have much to discuss before your hearing, and scant time to prepare."

Puzzlement furrowed Algorind's brow. Preparing for a trial? What strange notion was this? The truth was told and judgment was passed; what more could there be?

"I trust in Tyr's justice."

Sir Gareth inclined his head piously, leaving Algorind to marvel at the flicker of impatience on the old knight's face.

"So do we all, but your trial touches upon great matters, things that concern the deeper mysteries of the Knights of Samular. You will be allowed to answer the charges brought against you, but some things, for the sake of the Order, must remain unsaid."

"But surely nothing is secret from Master Laharin!"

"The master of Summit Hall will not be the only man at the counsel table. Harper representatives will be present, as will witnesses from among the common folk."

Algorind nodded reluctantly. "What would you have me say?"

"Your task was to deliver Cara Doon, a child of Samular's bloodline, to the protection of the Order. To that end, you brought her to Waterdeep. She was stolen away by a Harper known as Bronwyn, who is sister to the child's father-a priest of Cyric who calls himself Dag Zoreth. The child was spirited away to Thornhold, a fortress of the Order, recently taken in battle by Dag Zoreth and held by Bronwyn and her dwarf allies."

The young man's confusion grew as he listened to this partial recitation of fact. "Bronwyn said she rescued the child from a south-bound slave ship."

"What of it? She is a Harper, one who meddles in the affairs of her betters! She is a treasure hunter who despoils the crypts of the ancient dead. She does business with the Zhentarim, and she handed one of the rings of Samular over to Dag Zoreth. She professes no god, at least not openly. She is a light-skirt who has known many men and wed none. By any measure I know, the woman is not to be trusted."

"That may be so," Algorind said carefully, for he had seen enough of Bronwyn to suspect that the truths Sir Gareth spoke did not tell the whole tale of the woman, "but the fifty dwarves she freed from the slave ship will claim otherwise."

Sir Gareth's smile was grim. "We cannot keep the Harper wench from speaking at your trial. The dwarves, however, may find themselves otherwise occupied."

A chill ran down Algorind's spine. Was it his imagination, or did those words hold an ominous ring?

He forced himself to listen respectfully as Sir Gareth outlined the points Algorind should cover and those he should avoid. At last the old knight nodded, satisfied with the young man's recitation of carefully selected facts.

"All will be well, my son," he said warmly. "I am certain you will be restored to your place in Summit Hall. I will speak for you. Nay, more than that-I will sponsor you on a new paladin quest!"

This was a generous offer, but Algorind's sense of unease deepened. The proper response would be to draw his sword and offer it in fealty. For the first time, Algorind did not regret his empty scabbard.

Fortunately, Sir Gareth did not seem to require a response. He removed Algorind from the writing table to "suitable quarters"-a large birdcage, outfitted with a folded linen towel for a cot and an acorn cap for a chamber pot. A snuffbox served as a table, and on it was a thimble-full of ale and thick slivers of cheese and bread. The cage sat upon a small, round table, one that was even higher off the floor than the writing table.

Algorind eyed his new quarters with dismay. "Sir, am I a prisoner?"

"The cage is for your protection, nothing more. Given your size, it seemed prudent. I'll leave the door open, if you like, and you can close it if need arises."

"May I have my sword? The Harper who brought me here said he would give it to you."

Sir Gareth plucked a long silver pin from his tabard, a gleaming broadsword, in perfect miniature. He regarded it for a moment, his gaze shifting between the weapon and the young man.

"You have grown somewhat. The sword has not. But I suppose it will serve as a table knife."

The knight dropped the tiny weapon through the bars of the cage, so that it fell onto the folded linen "cot."

And with that, the vaguely uneasy feelings Algorind had experienced since entering Sir Gareth's home took sharp, disturbing focus. Surely no true paladin would treat a sword dedicated to Tyr with such casual disregard!

It all made sense now: the vision of corrupted fields, the carefully tailored story that left out any mention of Sir Gareth's part in the tale of little Cara Doon, even the lavishly appointed home. Sir Gareth had long served as treasurer for the Knights of Samular. Every paladin of the order paid tithes, and all of those funds flowed through Gareth's hands. No wonder the Harper who'd brought Algorind here had had such difficulty finding Sir Gareth's home. Algorind had assumed the clerics of Tyr's temple were merely protecting the old knight's privacy, but now that he considered their responses, it seemed more likely that they themselves didn't know. And small wonder Gareth kept them away-they would not be pleased to learn how their tithes were put to use.

Algorind schooled his face to a calm he did not feel and stood quietly through Sir Gareth's parting advice. He listened as the door to the library was closed and locked, his host's footsteps echoed down the hall. Once the outer door thudded shut, Algorind set to work unraveling long threads from the loosely woven linen and plaiting them into a makeshift rope.

He worked quickly, anxious to finish before Sir Gareth returned. When he judged the length sufficient, he tied one end of the rope to the bars of his cage and tossed the rest off the table. He lowered himself to the floor, and then used his dagger-sized sword to cut off a length of rope. This he coiled and tucked through his belt.

Tracking was a skill all future Knights of Samular learned in boyhood, but Algorind had never expected to track a mouse across a Calishite carpet. It was surprisingly easy; the signs of the creature's passage were as visible to Algorind's eye as those a deer might leave in the belly-high grass of a meadow. He followed the trail to a small knothole in the wood panel, one made nearly invisible by the grain of the wood and shadows cast by nearby furnishings.

Algorind crawled through the knothole and lowered himself carefully into a thick layer of dust, wood shavings, scraps, of plaster, and other detritus. The clutter inside the wall was dimly visible in the light that filtered down from an opening high overhead. This was a huge relief to Algorind, for he had expected to grope his way through total darkness in search of an exit.

Even so, the way out was also a very long way up. The young paladin took a deep breath and began to climb.

Hours passed as he pulled himself toward the light, finding handholds in the rough wood and plaster. His fingers bled and the muscles in his shoulders sang with pain, but he dared not slow his pace. Day was swiftly giving way to darkness, and the bit of sky visible through the opening under the eaves was turning a dusky purple.

Finally a ledge appeared just above Algorind. He pulled himself up and rolled onto a broad, flat board.

Standing was pure pleasure. He took a moment to stretch out sore muscles before venturing out onto the roof. As he flung his arms out wide, his fingers brushed against soft fur.

Algorind leaped away, drawing his weapon as he spun back toward the unknown creature.

His first response was, oddly enough, surprise; he'd never considered that demons might have fur.

Soulless black eyes regarded him from the center of hideous brown face, one so malformed that only when the fanged mouth opened did Algorind realize the creature was hanging upside down.

A keening scream burst from the "demon." Immediately the air was full of the thunder of wings and a chorus of hellish, high-pitched shrieks.

Never had Algorind heard such a sound. It reverberated against the inside of his skull, grating against bone like the talons of a dragon hatchling trying to claw free of its egg.

The board beneath his feet seemed to spin and tilt. He dropped to his knees for fear of falling, hands clasped to his ears. Blood trickled through his fingers, and the pain in his head soared beyond any he'd ever known, worse than that of being trapped in Bronwyn's siege tower and shrunk smaller than the bat he'd just disturbed.

And not just one bat-a vast colony of them, roosting in the attic of Sir Gareth's house. For what seemed a very long time they swept past him, their wings buffeting him as they darted out into the gathering night, shrieking all the while.

When at last they were gone, Algorind struggled to his feet and waited for the worst of the dizziness to pass. A high-pitched ringing was the only sound he could hear. That troubled him, but he would deal with it later. As soon as he could walk, he made his way to the opening.

The city of Waterdeep spread out before him, in all its splendor and squalor. Fine city gardens and ornate fences fronted the buildings in Sir Gareth's neighborhood; urchins picked through discarded crates for scraps of food in the narrow alleys behind. The twilight sky glowed like liquid sapphires, and streetlamps winked into life as lamplighters hurried along the streets, racing against swift-coming night. Algorind could see the leisurely swing of bells in the high tower of a nearby temple. No sound reached him. Except for the ringing in his ears, the city was eerily silent.

He eased through the opening, testing his weight on the narrow ledge beyond. The roof, which was tiled in blue slate, rose in a steep angle.

About five feet away from Algorind's perch, a drain pipe carried rain water to the street below. It appeared to be fashioned of segments of pipe, short enough for him to employ his rope and move from one to the next. But at his current size, five feet might as well be a thousand, and the slate ledge between Algorind and the drainpipe had worn away.

He studied the roof. Several tiles had crumbled or fallen away altogether, and moss and lichen grew in the dirt that settled over the passage of years. A ribbon of moss started just above his perch, growing upward and then meandering across the roof. If he could climb just a couple of feet up the roof, he could make his way across to the drainpipe.

Algorind tugged at a handful of moss and found it surprisingly stable. He began to climb, and for many moments the effort absorbed his entire concentration. Too late, he sensed a disturbance in the air above him and looked up into wide yellow eyes and reaching talons.

Faster than thought, the owl snatched him up and winged away.

Algorind reached for his sword, but immediately realized the folly of attacking his captor in mid-flight. Sooner or later, the owl would find a perch and Algorind would do whatever he could to defend himself. He settled himself as best he could and got a grip on the owl's talons, which were as hard and dry as the roots of a great tree.

Despite the gravity of his situation, Algorind started to enjoy the sensation of flight, the rush of night wind. The world spread out before him, city streets reduced to ribbons and great buildings no grander than a child's blocks. Beyond the city walls lay the lush darkness of meadow and farmlands, and beyond that, who could tell? Anything was possible. Even the stars looked like tiny silver apples, ripe for plucking.

Never had Algorind known such exhilaration, such wild joy! He threw back his head and let out a great shout of laughter. He would likely die this night, but now, at this moment, he was flying! By Tyr's Hammer, whatever came after would be a small price to pay!

27 Tarsakh, the Year of the Red Rain (927 DR)

Griffenwing Keep

Everything had gone wrong. Horribly, incomprehensibly wrong.

Renwick had been so certain Samular would applaud his plan to recover artifacts long entrusted to the Caradoon family. Of that large and noble clan, only their father had survived. Renwick was certain he and his brothers could recover or duplicate those lost treasures. To what other task should the three living Caradoon men dedicate themselves, if not this?

But Renwick's attempts bind a demon to this cause had torn open a rift between him and Samular. Their twin-born affection was all but sundered by the death of Amphail, their older brother, who had been willing to bear one of the three rings and hold another for his firstborn son. And Nimra-

Nimra. The very thought of her nearly broke Renwick's heart. Nothing else in his whole misbegotten scheme had gone so terrible awry.

It didn't take the demon long to realize that Renwick had deliberately misled him, that he had intended all along for the three rings to go to the three Caradoon brothers, all of them dedicated to the service of Tyr. But by then, it hardly mattered. The ancient spell Renwick had taught Nimra, one that promised an innocent could bind a demon to her will in the service of good, had failed.

In a cruel twist of irony, Nimra had fulfilled all of Renwick's false promises to Yamarral, and more. Amphail had died with Nimra's dark magic coursing through his veins, Nimra's dagger at his throat. With his death, two of the rings passed to Nimra's twin-born sons. And upon Nimra's death-may Tyr forgive him that grim necessity!-control of those rings passed to Renwick, their guardian.

The weight of so much magic had burned years from Renwick's life in a matter of months, turning his hair prematurely white and etching deep furrows in his face. No one mistook him for Samular's twin now; indeed, most people thought him the eldest of the three Caradoon brothers. He had ceased correcting them, for what was that to him? All that mattered was setting right what had gone so wrong.

Renwick stole a sidelong glance at the man who walked at his side. His companion was tall, dark-haired, and bearded. His age was impossible to tell; he walked with the easy stride of youth, but his eyes held the weight of centuries.

At the moment, those eyes were fixed upon the fortress ahead. Griffenwing Keep was ancient; Caradoon ancestors had built it upon the site of an even earlier stronghold. The original earthwork mounds were still visible around the wall of grey stone. Towers loomed above the tall outer wall. The overall aspect was craggy and rough, as if the mountain had taken this form of its own choice. The gardens surrounding the wall, however, showed the touch of Art. Some dark whimsy caused the fountains to run red and filled the garden with blood red flowers. This was Nimra's work, a symbol of what she had become in two short years. To Renwick's eye, the garden was more disturbing than a monster-infested moat.

"I am grateful for your assistance in this matter," he told his companion.

The wizard sometimes known as Khelben Arunsun responded with a curt nod. "You did well to send for me. Ascalhorn is trouble enough. How did demons come to command this stronghold?"

"A prideful wizard, a summoning gone awry," Renwick said, genuine sorrow and regret painting his tones. "But before her death, my niece gave me the means to banish the demon."

Khelben gave him a searching look, and Renwick felt the subtle tug of truth-test magic. It slid off him easily; few spells recognized a lie fashioned by placing two truths next to each other. Let Khelben think Nimra was the prideful wizard who had summoned the demon. It was better so.

Renwick slipped one hand into the bag at his belt, stroking one of the tiny hands hidden within-another grim necessity, for the blood token required the rings to be worn by three of Samular's blood. Still pink and perfect, the little fingers curled and flexed in the grasping movements common to healthy babes. His young wards lay at Caradoon Keep, where they would sleep peacefully until his return, knowing neither pain nor loss. He was not, after all, a cruel man.

Deals with demons were notoriously tricky, but a canny wizard could find his own out-gates. The blood token required the rings to be worn by three of Samular's blood, and wielded by combined will. Yamarral had neglected to specify that "blood" and "will" had to come from the same individuals. Combined will was necessary, of course, and the infants had no opinions of their own. Fortunately, Khelben Arunsun had no shortage in that regard.

Renwick surreptitiously slipped the rings from the two tiny, living thumbs. The rings expanded in his grasp to fit his much-larger fingers. With a flourish, he presented the trio to Khelben.

The wizard glanced at the rings and raised his gaze to Renwick's face. He looked unimpressed, even slightly impatient.

Piqued, Renwick snapped, "These are more powerful than you could know! United, the three rings form a rare and mighty artifact known as a blood token."

"The demon has offspring?" Khelben demanded. Understanding swept over his faced, followed by a mixture of sorrow and revulsion. "So that is the measure of Nimra Caradoon's alliance with this demon."

Renwick silently cursed himself for this lapse. But how could he have known Khelben would be familiar with magic so ancient and obscure? It had been vigorously suppressed; there were perhaps five written references yet in existence, and Renwick owned three of them.

He quickly gathered himself. "Then you know I hold the means to banish this demon. I am heir to Nimra's folly and guardian of her sons, but I lack the magical strength to accomplish the banishment alone. Bind your will to mine with the spell I will teach you, and thus will all be done."

The wizard asked Renwick many pointed questions. Fortunately, his knowledge of blood tokens was not as complete as Renwick had feared. When at last Khelben was satisfied with the carefully prepared half-truths, he turned his attention to the spell. This he learned with demoralizing speed and ease.

Their shared casting was more successful than Renwick had dared hope. The entire keep, including the blood red gardens, simply faded away.

For a long moment Khelben stared in stunned silence at the mountain meadow. He turned to Renwick, and whatever he saw in the younger wizard's face seemed to deliver a second blow. Khelben steadied himself against an oak and took a long breath. "The rings you used in the casting. What else can they do?"

"Why do you ask? Was this day's work not enough for you?"

Temper blazed in Khelben's eyes. Before Renwick could respond, the wizard seized him by the cloak, lifted him off his feet, and slammed him against the tree.

"There were people in that keep, you lying orc-whelp!" he roared. "A blood token would have dispelled the demon, nothing more. Tell me where you found those three rings, and the nature of their power!"

Renwick summoned a smile and a lie. "What they were meant to be, I do not know." He couldn't resist adding, "What use I have made of them… you will not know."

Khelben released him and stepped back, his face set with grim purpose. "You know you cannot stand against me in spell battle."

"I do not intend to." Renwick lifted both hands to show that the rings had disappeared from his fingers. "The rings, and a partial knowledge of the power they wield, are in the hands of an adversary you cannot defeat."

The disbelief on Khelben Arunsun's face was priceless. Renwick had heard tell the wizard was elf-blooded. Khelben didn't particularly resemble his elven forebears in physical matters, but apparently he was as convinced of his own superiority as any high elf noble.

"You do not ask me of whom I speak. Pride forbids it, I suppose," Renwick observed. "I will tell you nonetheless. Samular will hold the rings, as will his descendants after him."

"The paladin?"

"Samular is not just any paladin. He is destined for legend. With my help, of course."

Khelben nodded slowly as he came to understand just how far out of reach the rings had been placed.

"A paladin's way is righteous and good," Renwick said, finding an unexpected pleasure in rubbing salt into the wizard's wounds. "If you do not stand with him, many men will assume you stand against him."

"That may be so, but that much power cannot be easily contained," Khelben warned. "You will not be able to keep the rings secret forever. Some day they will fall into other hands, and be used for other purposes."

Renwick smiled. "Then it is in your best interest to make certain this does not occur. After all, you helped send nearly two hundred innocent souls to an unknown fate. Once the tale begins to be told, who knows where it will end?"

Khelben did not react well to threats-or perhaps he resented the implication that his conscience could be silenced. He lunged at Renwick, eyes blazing with wrath. This time Renwick was ready for him. He dropped a portable hole onto the ground and stepped into it.

The mountain wind rose to a wail as Renwick swept along the magic pathway. He emerged safely inside the grey fastness of Caradoon Keep, and not a moment too soon. The shouts of the guards and hostlers in the keep's courtyard announced his brother's eminent return.

Renwick gathered up his robes and took the stairs two at a time. If he hurried, he'd have just enough time to reassemble Nimra's babies before their grandsire arrived.

29 Mirtul, the Year of the Banner (1368 DR)

Waterdeep

A sharp, staccato tapping dragged Danilo Thann's attention from his studies. He glanced up from a particularly thick, dusty tome and noted the shadows playing against one of the multi-paned windows placed high on the opposite wall. He shaped a cantrip with a quick, one-handed gesture. The latch opened and the window swung inward. A silver owl swooped in, dropped its burden on Danilo's desk, and flapped up to perch on a high shelf.

Danilo was not particularly surprised to note the identity of his small visitor. Algorind had been a thorn in Bronwyn's side, and therefore his own, for the better part of a month. Since no reasonable man would expect the paladin's nature to change along with his size, Danilo had set up certain safeguards against Algorind's escape.

"Thank you, Vichart," Danilo said, addressing the owl before turning to the rather windblown Algorind. "And you, sir; did you tire so quickly of Sir Gareth's hospitality?"

The tiny paladin shook his head and pointed to his ears.

Upon closer scrutiny, Danilo noted the faint smear of blood on the young man's neck and in his pale hair.

"Can't hear me, eh? No fear, I've a healing potion hereabouts that should turn the page on that chapter."

Danilo unlocked a drawer, rummaged, and withdrew a small glass vial. He eyed Algorind and considered the dosage. Perhaps just a drop… No, there was no telling how much would cure and how much would kill.

"I suppose there's no help for it," he murmured as he reached for a book covered with dark green leather. "I'll have to put you back to rights. A waste of magic, in my opinion, but there it is. Fortunately for you, I've done little but study the history of your order since this business began. The size-changing magic of the siege tower was not particularly complex. Devising a spell to reverse it was surprisingly simple."

Devising it might have been an easy matter, but judging from the set of Algorind's jaw and the beads of sweat on his too-white forehead, his rapid return to normal size was far from painless. When he regained his former height, Danilo handed over the vial and pantomimed drinking.

After a moment's hesitation, the young man did as he was bid. Color flooded back into his face, and he rolled his shoulders like a man who'd just put down a great burden.

"The ringing is gone." His face brightened. "I can hear myself speak!"

"Well, there's a down side to everything, isn't there?"

Algorind nodded absently. "You restored me."

"Yes, and imagine my surprise! I was actually trying to shrink a goblet down to your former size, for hospitality's sake."

The young man continued to regard him, his expression uncomprehending. Danilo sighed.

"That was a small jest. Very small, apparently."

Algorind inclined his head in a small bow. "I am grateful for the restoration." A surprisingly boyish grin lit his face. "And for the flight, as well!"

"Really? I was about to apologize for that. Owls are so seldom a preferred mode of conveyance. Will you have wine?"

"Thank you. I am very thirsty."

Danilo walked over to his serving cabinet. He poured a small measure of wine into a large goblet and added chilled water and a spoonful of sugar. A child's drink, but it would be more appropriate to Algorind's thirst, and, Danilo suspected, to his experience.

The young man nodded his thanks and took a polite sip. His face brightened. "It is more pleasant than I expected, and far more refreshing."

"Drink as much as you need," Danilo instructed. "It's mostly water, and will do you no harm."

Once Algorind had emptied his goblet and another like it, Danilo indicated a chair. "We have much to talk about, so much I hardly know where to begin."

The paladin took a seat and turned a puzzled expression upon his host, who was pouring himself a goblet of unwatered wine. "What is a light-skirt?"

Danilo let out of a burst of startled laughter. He set down the decanter and leaned back against the serving cupboard. "Not exactly how I expected to begin, but very well, let's start there. It's a rather prim way to insult a woman's virtue by insinuating that her skirts, being light, are easily lifted."

"Oh."

He noted the crimson creeping into Algorind's face. "May I ask where you heard that term?"

"Sir Gareth said it of Bronwyn."

Danilo's smile disappeared. "Indeed," he said coldly. "Since we're exchanging gossip like a couple of fishwives, why don't you tell me what else Sir Gareth had to say?"

"He said that Bronwyn does business with the Zhentarim."

That was true, but it was hardly common knowledge. Danilo shrugged lightly. "No doubt he referred to her brother, the priest Dag Zoreth."

Algorind shook his head adamantly. "No, Sir Gareth mentioned this priest, but as a separate matter."

The intensity of the young man's manner was beginning to make sense to Danilo. So were a great many other things, and all of these insights suggested that he had vastly misjudged the young paladin.

He settled into his chair before responding to Algorind's unasked question. "You're quite right-those are two separate issues. Bronwyn does indeed have dealings with the Zhentarim. Or more precisely, she did. Now that rumors of her Harper alliance are being bruited about by the good men of your order, I imagine several people of Zhentish persuasion are busily disposing of the treasures and forgetting the information she sold them. But other than the people involved in these business dealings, only Bronwyn, her gnome assistant, the archmage of Waterdeep, and I know of her Zhent contacts, and I can guarantee you that Sir Gareth did not receive this information from any of us. Make of that what you will."

A sorrowful sigh escaped the paladin and his shoulders slumped as if under a heavy weight. "It is as I feared, then." He glanced up at Danilo, his expression rueful. "It must be difficult for you to believe a man such as Gareth Cormaeril could be in league with the Zhentarim."

"Actually, it doesn't task my powers of imagination."

The young man's gaze sharpened. "Forgive me if I misspeak, but you don't seem to hold paladins in high regard."

Danilo shrugged. "I'm not an admirer of your order, that much is true, but that opinion doesn't indicate a general disregard for the religious life. As you know, my uncle, Khelben Arunsun, has long been at odds with Samular's knights."

"I am not aware of that history."

The Harper choked on a sip of wine. He carefully set the goblet down. "How is that possible? Their disagreement is central to the order's reason for existence."

"Perhaps the order exists for other purposes, as well," Algorind suggested.

"Perhaps? Do you mean to tell me you have devoted your life to a cause you do not understand?"

Algorind returned his gaze without faltering. "My life is dedicated to Tyr's service. I understand that well enough."

"If you were merely a paladin of Tyr, I would agree with you, but you are allied with the Knights of Samular, a military order with a particular mission."

He reached for a large blue gem lying amidst a heap of books and scrolls. "This is a kiiri, an elven memory stone. The elf who carried it was a bard and a scribe. He left it as an aid to those who wished to study his work. He was present at the taking of the fortress Thornhold by Samular Caradoon, your order's founder. Would you like to see that event through the eyes of the bard who witnessed it?"

"Such a thing is possible?" Algorind marveled.

Taking the question for assent, Danilo went to a large cupboard and removed from it a metal stand, an ornate device that looked a bit like a sundial. He placed it near Algorind's chair and then fitted the kiiri into an impression in the flat surface. A round mirrored glass fitted into the frame above it.

"Look into the glass," he instructed. "You will see and hear everything the bard witnessed. After the first few moments, you might forget you are not actually present."

Algorind leaned forward, his face avid with curiosity. As the ancient scene played out, the Harper watched the shifting emotions on the younger man's face with something akin to pity. Danilo had delved into the kiiri's storehouses and found the memories disturbing, but the reality behind the Knights of Samular was sure to have a far more profound effect on the young paladin.

When at last the vision faded away, Algorind sat back in his chair. His heart raced as if he had been among the followers of the great Samular, fighting to oust a warlord from his fortress. And the Fenrisbane-or Kezefbane, as the order's scholars would have it-the size-shifting siege tower that had featured in Algorind's recent humiliation, had been a mighty weapon used for the glory of Tyr. And yet____________________

There had been something profoundly wrong with the Kezefbane. Evil clung to it like mist rising from a swamp. Apparently Algorind had not been the only one to sense this. The twin-born grandsons of Samular, identical unbearded lads clad in the white and blue of Tyr's sworn warriors, wore identical expressions of horror as they regarded the white-haired, white-cloaked wizard who commanded the siege tower.

What might have come of that, Algorind would never know. An arrow shot by one of Thornhold's defenders brought down the wizard. And while Samular's followers swarmed over the walls, the wizard died in the arms of his paladin brother. There could be no mistaking the resemblance, though Samular was broader and his brown hair was untouched by age, and the paladin had wept as he referred to the wizard as his twin, his other-self.

Strange. None of the stories Algorind had learned at Summit Hall mentioned Samular as twin-born, or spoke of his wizard brother. Of Wurthar and Dorlion, the twin-born paladins who built the Holy Order of the Knights of Samular, he had heard much. Tales of their mighty exploits and virtuous lives had been the mainstay of his early training.

He lifted his gaze to the Harper's watchful, sympathetic face. "Tell me of Samular's brother."

"That's Renwick Caradoon." Danilo quickly told the story he'd been piecing together.

"It would appear," he concluded, "that Renwick tricked Khelben Arunsun-a wizard who is commonly thought to be the current archmage's ancestor-into helping him banish the demon Yamarral, along with the inhabitants of an entire keep, to a small plane, one from which the demon cannot escape of his own power. The conditions of the original blood token agreement probably stated that Renwick's power would continue until the demon was returned to the Abyss. By banishing him, Renwick made sure this couldn't happen. Rather clever, keeping a demon exile by his own magic."

Algorind shook his head sadly. "All those people sacrificed to one man's ambition! I suppose it is a blessing Renwick Caradoon died before those ambitions could be fully realized."

In response, Danilo handed over an ancient book, which was opened to a sketch of a tall, round tower. "That is Caradoon Keep, which Renwick used as his lair during his life, and to which he retreated after death."

"But how could he retreat after he-"

Danilo cut him off with a gesture of one hand. "Turn the page."

The paladin did so, and immediately recoiled in surprise. The old tower now stood just outside a vast fortress of sand-colored stone. He knew this place very well, for he had been raised and trained there.

"Have you never wondered why that tower was outside the walls of Summit Hall?" the Harper asked softly.

Algorind nodded. "The masters said only that it contained a great and powerful magic that the Knights of Samular must safeguard. Renwick Caradoon?"

"I'm afraid so. Renwick intended to hold his power for a very long time, either as a living man or a lich. I thought at first that Samular imprisoned him, but have come to suspect that Renwick imposed exile upon himself as a means of penance."

"And the Knights of Samular distrust Khelben Arunsun, Waterdeep's archmage, because his ancestor and namesake took unwitting part in Renwick's plan?"

A fleeting smile touched the Harper's lips. "Let's just say my esteemed uncle is more than capable of making his own enemies."

"Indeed. There is much distrust between the Harpers and my order."

"And with good reason. The Kezefbane was only one of the magical items Renwick created or recovered from Ascalhorn. To this day, men seek those items-and not all of them belong to your order. In fact, there is a secret society in Amn dedicated to this purpose. Under Khelben's direction, the Harpers have been opposing them for years. Since the society and your order share certain goals, the Harpers' efforts sometimes conflict with the activities of Samular's knights, especially where the bloodline of Samular is concerned. For obvious reasons, the society in Amn has an interest in Samular's descendants. It is my belief that Bronwyn was bound there when she was stolen as a child."

A disturbing possibility occurred to Algorind. "And Cara Doon, as well? Bronwyn's niece?"

"Most likely. Cara is going to be particularly attractive to these people. Not only does she possess one of the rings of Samular, but she has prodigious magical talent. Her mother was Ashemmi, an elf with enormous ambitions, a black heart, and the morals of a cat. In fact, I would not be surprised to learn she was recruited to seduce Dag Zoreth in hope of breeding a magically gifted child of Samular's bloodline."

"That is… monstrous," Algorind whispered. "And Sir Gareth traffics with these people? How could he keep such evil hidden for so long?"

"I can think of several reasons," Danilo observed, "foremost among them Sir Gareth's fame. People, even paladins, usually see what they expect to see. Consider also the wound that withered his arm and ended his active career. Well-mannered people avert their eyes from lamed men so as not to appear indelicate. Every Dock Ward pickpocket knows this trick, and some use it to good effect, for good folk are disinclined to gawk at people who have obviously suffered some injury."

"Men who rise above their disabilities are admired, and Sir Gareth continued his work on behalf of the order, working as a treasurer," added Algorind.

"And that, too, has helped him, for such work is mostly solitary, and kept him from day to day contact with the men of his order. Familiarity might have dulled the sheen of his reputation and allowed men to see how dark his soul had become."

"There is much wisdom in your words," Algorind conceded. He looked up at Danilo, his expression uncertain. "What should I do now, sir? I seek your council."

That seemed to amuse the Harper. "Shall I list the reasons why you shouldn't? In the interest of saving time, why don't you tell me what you think must be done."

"My order needs to know about Sir Gareth."

"Indeed," he said slowly. "It is possible that his facade will shatter when it is closely examined. But it is also possible that he has been magically protected from such inquiry. Did you pray for insight into his nature?"

"No, sir; it was my own heart I sought to know. I caught a glimpse of Sir Gareth's, almost like something seen from the corner of my eye."

"Interesting. But it might be difficult to persuade your elders to try this method, or convince them that what you saw was the truth of Sir Gareth."

"Then what should we do?"

Danilo considered this. "If Sir Gareth put Cara on that south-bound ship, there will be records somewhere. As luck would have it, I have friends in low places. In time, I should be able to gather enough information to support your accusations. But a witness would be better."

"But what good man has been witness to Sir Gareth's misdeeds?"

"That's the problem, isn't it?" Danilo mused. He shook himself and sent his guest a rueful smile. "I have been remiss. You are hurt and in need of healing."

Algorind frowned. "You restored my size and my hearing."

"Yes, but the healing potion I gave you was specific to that hurt. Your hands are nearly raw."

Danilo rummaged among his collection of potions and took out a tear-shaped bottle filled with dark fluid in which swam tiny motes of light. He regarded it for a long moment before handing it over. "This should solve the problem."

The young paladin nodded his thanks and tipped back the bottle. A feeling of wonder suffused him as he regarded his unblemished hands. "They were healed almost before I swallowed. Even the old scars are gone!"

"It's an unusually powerful potion," Danilo said evenly as he reached for the empty vial. "Now, about Sir Gareth…"

Yes, what about Sir Gareth? To Algorind's surprise, he was no longer certain what to think of the old knight. His doubts and fears, so firmly held just moments before, felt as insubstantial as wisps of morning fog.

"Sir Gareth is a hero of our order," he mused. "If the vision I saw was truly a glimpse of Sir Gareth's heart-and I am no longer so certain that it was-perhaps the darkness described the pain from his wounds, or perhaps he is suffering through a time of discouragement. If he had given himself over to evil, if he had truly done the things you suspect, surely my elders would have known!"

"I'm not surprised you think so," Danilo said, idly turning over the empty potion vial in his hand. "And what do you intend to do next?"

"I will go whithersoever Tyr and you deem fit to send me."

Again the Harper laughed, but it seemed to Algorind that the sound lacked any real mirth.

"Tyr and me, is it? Now there are two vintages I never expected to see in a single goblet!" He abruptly sobered, looking more serious than Algorind would have thought possible. "For the nonce, forget about my opinion. Forget about the Order. What do you think you should do?"

After a moment's consideration, Algorind said, "I would warn the dwarves of Thornhold. Sir Gareth mentioned that they might be prevented from speaking at Summit Hall."

"Indeed. Did he say how, or by whom?"

"He did not. But no doubt Sir Gareth has knowledge he did not see fit to share with me."

"No doubt," the Harper murmured. "If a dwarf's got something on his mind and the desire to share it, he's not easily silenced, but I'll send word to Bronwyn at Thornhold." Danilo lifted one brow. "Unless you prefer to go yourself?"

"I would like nothing better, as I would beg her pardon and little Cara's for wrongs unwittingly done. And yet," he added wonderingly, "I feel compelled to return to Sir Gareth. It may be that he will need an aide in the years to come, someone he can trust to help him with all of his many duties."

The Harper's smile seemed a bit sad. "I thought you might feel that way."

The silver owl chose that moment to flap over to the window and out into the night. Algorind watched it go, a wistful smile on his face.

"If you're to aid Sir Gareth, you'll need a horse and a new sword," the Harper observed. "I know a fine sword smith who doesn't mind doing business at this hour. As for a mount, well, it just so happens that I have friends at the Pegasus aerie."

Algorind was on his feet at once. "A winged horse would consent to carry me?"

"They're less particular than you might have heard," Danilo said in a droll tone. "Before we leave, there is one question my study was unable to answer. Of the twin knights, Wurthar and Dorlion, which inherited his sire's dark nature?"

"It matters not at all," Algorind said, marveling at the truth of his own words. "The light of Tyr's grace shines equally upon all men. What we are, we chose to become. What we do, we choose to do."

Danilo nodded, but his gray eyes looked troubled. "So you are not dismayed to learn the founders of your order were demon-spawned? You will hold nothing against Bronwyn and Cara, who share this heritage?"

"As long as neither of them shrinks me again," Algorind said fervently, "I will be content."

Later that night, Danilo let himself back into his town-house with a muttered spell and an impatient wave of one hand. He was too tired and dispirited to be bothered with keys.

His commendable halfling steward had left a lamp burning in the entrance hall, but the study beyond was deep in shadows. Even so, he could make out the outline of a tall, broad-shouldered man seated near the softly glowing embers of the hearth fire.

"You should bolster your wards," instructed a deep voice, slightly burred with the accent he occasionally neglected to hide. "As you have just demonstrated, they are far too easy to breach."

With a sigh, Danilo entered the room and flopped down into a chair opposite Waterdeep's archmage. "I thought you might drop by. No doubt the smell of magical meddling drew you like strong cheese does mice."

"You seem heavy of heart," the great wizard observed. He held up the empty vial, the second potion Danilo had given the young paladin. "It is no small thing, to magically control a man's will."

"No small thing?" Danilo echoed incredulously. "It's wrong. It's evil. It's no better than rape!"

"And yet… "

"And yet," Danilo echoed softly. He rubbed his hands over his face and sent Khelben a rueful look. "I have condemned you for far less. In truth, I have judged you harshly over the years."

"That is what young men do."

They sat together in silence, sharing the solitude that comes from great power and difficult choices. At long last, Danilo asked, "Can any good come of this night's work?"

"No man can see all possible outcomes," Khelben said, "and on the whole, this is a good thing. The multiplicity of possible truths would drive one mad. So can too much power. And since there is nothing you fear so much as madness, you have fought against me these many years, shying away from realizing your full magical potential and rejecting any suggestion that you might be my successor at Blackstaff Tower."

Danilo stared at him. "I didn't think you knew."

"You might be surprised how well I understand you," Khelben said. He nodded to the untidy pile of books and scrolls on Danilo's study table. "You have a wizard's talent, a bard's passion for history, and a sense of duty that demands you employ both in service to others. This is your path, and it is good and right that you follow it."

Moved beyond words, Danilo merely nodded his thanks.

Khelben cleared his throat. "So you will be leaving for Tethyr soon?"

"Yes, before the tenday's end, and I will not be going alone. My lady Arilyn has rights to redress; Elaith Craulnober has people to kill." Danilo shrugged. "Business as usual, only this time my ill-assorted elven friends find themselves in rare accord."

"Indeed! Should I be relieved to hear that, or worried?"

"A little of both, I daresay."

Khelben chuckled and rose to leave, which brought Danilo politely to his feet. The archmage regarded the younger man for a long moment.

"Mystra's blessing upon you, son."

Danilo smiled at him. "I won't be gone forever-a few years at most. To a man of your long years, that's a mere eye blink. I'll see you upon my return."

A strange expression crossed the archmage's face, a flicker of emotion, quickly mastered. Khelben lifted a hand in farewell and disappeared into mist.

6 Eleint, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR)

Summit Hall

Laharin Goldbeard, the Master of Summit Hall, studied the papers spread out before him. His face paled as he read the bills of lading and shipping records linking Sir Gareth to the Zhentarim and, worse, to the Collectors Guild, the wicked treasure-hunters of Amn whose collective purpose was an evil twin to that of the Knights of Samular. Finally he fingered the scrying ring that, moments before, had revealed the face of Dag Zoreth, a priest of Cyric and member of the Zhentarim, who had impatiently answered "Sir Gareth" in a manner suggesting long acquaintance.

The paladin glanced up at one of the tall, fair-haired men standing before him. "How is it, Algorind, that you spent more than five years gathering this information? I won't deny that you've done a great service to the order, but subterfuge is difficult for a paladin whose heart is true."

"But not impossible," interjected his companion, a well-dressed nobleman a few years older than Algorind. "I placed him under a magical compulsion that caused him to set his doubts aside until such time as he had collected proof your order could not ignore. I coerced his will to this purpose."

Laharin regarded the man sternly. "You freely admit to this?"

"I do," Danilo Thann said evenly; "furthermore, I would take upon myself any blame that might fall upon Algorind, and I submit myself to your judgment."

"You do not fall under our jurisdiction."

"Nevertheless."

The master nodded and turned to the elderly man seated nearby, an armored guard standing on either side. "What say you to these accusations, Sir Gareth?"

"Papers can be forged and well you know it!" Gareth said sternly. "A wizard who would force another man's will could easily create an illusion such as the device before you. And Lord Thann was once a Harper, kinsman to Khelben Arunsun-and as such, an enemy to our order."

Laharin listened gravely, then turned to Algorind. "What response would you give to this?"

"Sir Gareth has spoken long about the faults of other men." The young paladin glanced at Danilo Thann. "But it seems to me that a good man will own his errors. I would consider warily any man who does not."

"Well said." Laharin rose and addressed the old knight. "Sir Gareth, in view of your long service to the Knights of Samular, and in concern for the reputation of our order, you will not stand a public trial, but go into quiet confinement."

Gareth looked relieved. "The sentence is just. Whatever might have come of my past actions, I never had any intention of doing evil."

"Neither did Renwick Caradoon. I trust you will find his company instructive."

Sir Gareth paled. "Sure you don't mean-"

"As you yourself observed, the sentence is just." Laharin glanced at the guards. "Take him to the Founder's Keep."

To his credit, Sir Gareth left without protest, carrying himself with the dignity that recalled his heroic youth. Once the room was cleared of armed paladins, Laharin sank back into his chair and wearily regarded the two young men standing before him.

"What penance would you place upon yourself, Algorind? Lest you judge too harshly, let me remind you that this man has offered to take your punishment upon himself."

The young paladin did not need to consider. "Let me serve the Knights of Samular by seeking out the artifacts Renwick Caradoon created or recovered from Ascalhorn, and return them safely to the order."

"I see," Laharin said slowly. His gaze flicked to the small, brown-haired woman sitting quietly in the corner. "And you could do this work better than the Collectors Guild? You could retrieve from Amn those devices these villains have already claimed?"

"Not alone, sir." Algorind's face flushed, but he held the master's eyes. "Bronwyn Caradoon knows the work of collecting antiquities. She speaks the languages of Amn and other southern lands, and she has had dealings with some of the men in the Guild."

"And you, Bronwyn? Would you share this task?"

The woman rose, her pretty face set in determined lines. "Those whoresons killed my family to get to me. They kidnapped my niece Cara once and they've made three more attempts since. Give me a quill and tell me where to sign up."

A smile spread across the Laharin's face. "A fitting task for a daughter of Samular! Welcome home, child. And you, Lord Thann; are you content to let Algorind take the full consequences of this penance on this own shoulders?"

Something in his tone brought bought a look of alert inquiry to the young noble's face. He glanced from Bronwyn to Algorind, and understanding dawned. Since Bronwyn had no kinsman present, Laharin was granting Danilo, her friend and sponsor, the honor of giving consent to the proposed partnership. Danilo noted how the mismatched pair stood together, hands joined in common purpose… and watched as their hands slid apart, slowly. Reluctantly. He turned back to Laharin with a wry, knowing smile.

"I daresay this 'penance' will repay Algorind's debt in full, as well as fees and penalties beyond the dreams of the greediest moneylender."

"I knew Bronwyn's mother," the master observed, his eyes twinkling, "and the memory of that acquaintance, while fond, does nothing to contradict your observation. Your lady is Arilyn Moonblade, the half-elf Harper?"

"Yes."

Laharin nodded, a wry smile on his bearded face. "That suffices, as well."

Algorind listened to this exchange with obvious puzzlement. "I don't understand."

The master of Summit Hall and the nobleman exchanged a look of rare and total accord. "You will," they said in unison. Originally published in Realms of Valor Edited by James Lowder, February 1993