Thornhold

NINE

By dawn the following day, Dag Zoreth's horse and guard stood ready for the journey south. He was not pleased, therefore, when one of Malchior's servants came down to the gate to bid Dag to await his guest, who wished to accompany him.

An hour and more passed while the older priest lingered at breakfast and carefully supervised the packing of Hronulf's lore books into his bags. That accomplished, the members of the party mounted and began to wind their way down the hillside to the High Road.

The size of the group worried Dag. Although none of the guards wore the symbols of Darkhold, and neither of the priests their vestments, the addition of Malchior and his score of attendants made them more suspicious and more subject to scrutiny. A group of two score armed men arriving at the gates of Waterdeep might attract too much attention and too close an examination into Dajs affairs.

He had worries enough without the close attention of Waterdeep's officials, both overt and secret. The city was a veritable nest of Harper activity, and the secret lords of the city were nearly as intrusive and pervasive as the Harpers. The inquiries Dag needed to make in the city were extremely sensitive, and he could use none of his usual Zhentilar informers. If Malchior discovered that Dag had a daughter, and that he had kept the girl's existence secret for over eight years, there would certainly be trouble.

And there was always the possibility that Malchior did know and that the girl's disappearance had been the work of the Zhentarim. Dag had reason to know that the society he served used such methods.

He cast a sidelong glance at Malchior. The fat priest rode like a sack of grain, but his face showed no sign of the discomfort his body must have been experiencing. He caught Dag's eye.

"You have met Sir Gareth. Are you finding that liaison useful?" Malchior asked pleasantly.

Dag considered his words carefully; after all, he intended to use the paladin to find his missing sister and his stolen child. "He managed to get Bronwyn to Thornhold. He handled the disposition of some newly acquired… cargo for me. In short, he seems able enough. I would hesitate to trust him too far, however, as he demonstrates a remarkable capacity for self-deception. I have no doubt he could justify any treachery."

"Well said," Malchior agreed. "That is always the risk of any agent, is it not? A man who is willing to betray his comrades at arms is not likely to show absolute loyalty to the men who bought him."

This presented as good an opening as Dag ever expected. "You presented Sir Gareth as an ambitious man, jealous of Hronulf's fame and lineage. That I can readily accept, but how did the Zhentarim hope to profit from the raid on Hronulf's village, and what do you personally intend to gain by pointing me toward my heritage?"

Malchior cast a glance around to ensure that the guards were beyond earshot. "The answer to your first question is easy enough. Paladins and Zhentarim are natural enemies, much as mountain cats and wolves. Hronulf had more enemies among us than I could count or name."

"You state what is known rather than answer the question," Dag observed, keeping his voice cool only with great effort. "You taught me better than to accept such sophistry. Please, do not insult your own fine instruction."

The priest chuckled at this tactic. "Again, well said!"

"Why were some of Hronulf's children taken?" Dag persisted.

Malchior sighed and flapped away a fly that buzzed about his horse's ears. "That I cannot tell you. It is the nature of the Zhentarim that one hand does not always know what the other is doing. There are many ambitious men among us. Who knows? Perhaps there was intent to seek ransom, or vengeance. Who is to say what is in the heart of any Zhentilar?"

Again, Dag noted grimly, a question evaded. "And how did you come to learn of my family's history and to connect me, a child lost some twelve years by the time I came to your attention, to Hronulf of Tyr?"

"Ah, that. I have made a study of the Caradoon family, you see. Sometime I must show you the old portrait of your ancestor, Renwick Caradoon. You are enough like him to be his son, perhaps even his twin. I saw the resemblance instantly when you were brought to Zhentil Keep for testing as a lad, and I made a point to look into your history. Tracing your path was no easy thing, I assure you. Years passed before I was convinced that you were indeed the child stolen from the Jundar's Vale and lost by the Zhentish soldiers who took you."

Dag listened carefully, but habit prompted him to study the path ahead, the seemingly endless stretch of hard-packed dirt shaded and scented by the stand of giant cedars growing on the eastern side. He absently signaled to his captain and pointed to the trees, thus indicating the need for additional vigilance. The man saluted and sent a pair of men off into the trees to scout ahead for possible ambush.

"You have grown quite practiced in the art of command," Malchior observed. "Perhaps there is something of Hronulf of Tyr in you, after all."

Dag's eyes narrowed. His first impulse was to believe the remark a deliberate taunt. Then, upon consideration, he realized that Malchior had at last given him the answer to his question-albeit in the roundabout manner that the priest favored. "And that is why you sought me out," Dag summarized bluntly.

"There is power in the bloodline of Samular," the priest agreed, "as I have said before."

"Then why not Hronulf himself?"

Malchior scoffed. "I would have a better chance of turning the tide itself than bending a man such as Hronulf Caradoon to my purpose. No, the only way to deal with a noble paladin is the manner that you chose-and no doubt executed yourself."

Dag stiffened. "I did not mention Hronulf's fate."

"You did not have to. I trained you well, and we both know that only fools leave the destruction of an enemy to even a trusted underling. The important thing now is that Hronulf's power will be yours. When you discover what that is, and how to use it, then I trust that your gain wili also be mine."

"You are a trusting man," Dag said with heavy. "I suppose that is why you also seek my sister. You are, perhaps, placing bets on more than one horse?"

Malchior laughed heartily, slapping one fleshy thigh with his hand. "Alas, betting upon racing horses is one vice I have not yet had occasion to develop. But you are astute. I would like to have this woman under the influence of the Zhentarim. Yours, mine-it makes no real difference. Are we not like father and son?"

An interesting comparison, Dag thought wryly, considering the history of betrayals that lay between him and his blood father. But Dag carefully considered the older priest's words, reading between and behind them for the true meaning. Perhaps his first conclusion was off the mark. Perhaps Malchior did not need him or Bronwyn. Perhaps he needed them both.

The family rings. There were two of them, that he knew of. One was on his daughter's hand, the other most likely in his sister's possession. But the inscription on the ring he found in his ruined village indicated that there were three and that when they came together, "evil would tremble."

The third ring, then. Three rings, in the hands of three of Samular's descendants. That had to be what Malchior wanted.

Dag's jaw clenched, and again he turned his eyes to the road ahead. No, he certainly could not rely on the Zhentarim to help him find what he had lost. Sir Gareth, for all his limitations, was Dag's best recourse. Two days' travel, and then he would confront his paladin "ally" face to face. There was grave danger in this, of course. If the paladins under Sir Gareth's command recognized the ring on the little girl's hand, Dag might be hard pressed to get her back.

"And your sister? Have your men found any sign of her yet?"

Dag lifted a hand to his lips to hide his knowing smile. Yes, Malchior seemed very interested in finding Bronwyn. "As of this morning, no. But, sooner or later, she will return to her place of business in the city, and I shall find her there. There is no real harm in the delay. I shall have my little family reunion in due time."

He turned a bland expression toward his former mentor, carefully studying his reaction to these words.

But the priest's face gave away nothing. "I'm sure you are right. Now, on to more practical matters. We have been on the road for hours. Surely we should break for the midday meal."

Dag glanced toward the east. The sun was barely visible over the tall cedars. Highsun was at least two hours away. He suppressed a sigh and gestured for his quartermaster's attention.

The trip to Waterdeep, it seemed, would take considerably longer than Dag had anticipated.

Ebenezer Stoneshaft had never been so thoroughly and completely miserable in his nearly two centuries of life. He slumped on the deck of the ship, his back against a barrel and his eyes fixed with determination on the sky-rather than on the heaving waves beneath.

Every jolt and roll of the ship sent shivers of atavistic terror through him. How humans and elves put up with sea travel, he would never know. The feeling was too much like that of the first shivers of an earthquake, that unpredictable and devastating force that was every dwarf's deepest fear. Being on a ship was a constant, terror-filled waiting for the damn quake to start.

The rolling motion, and the unrelieved state of expectant dread, kept the dwarf's belly in turmoil. Ever since they'd left that cesspool of a port in this floating excuse for a coffin, Ebenezer hadn't been able to keep much down.

Not that he'd stopped trying. When Bronwyn found him, he was doggedly spooning up salty chowder.

She crouched beside him. "The ship's food is terrible," she commiserated.

"Aye," he agreed sourly, regarding the small bowl is his hands. "And the portions are pretty damn skimpy."

For some reason she found this amusing, but she sobered quickly as she sat down beside him. "We're making good progress. Captain Orwig was able to bribe the Gate Keepers in Skullport and learn where they sent the ship we're seeking.

Ebenezer nodded. He remembered all too well the trip up from the subterranean port through a series of magical locks. "How much longer, do you figure?"

"This caravel is fast and light. The ship we're chasing is single-masted, with a deep hold for cargo. It was fully loaded. According to the captain, if we keep to the course the Keepers gave us, we should outrun it soon. If not today, then surely tomorrow."

"Good," the dwarf said stoutly. He wiped the bowl clean with a bit of hard biscuit, which he popped into his mouth. "Like the old saying goes: Nothing settles the stomach like the scent of an enemy's blood."

"I missed that one," Bronwyn murmured. "Must be strictly a dwarven proverb."

It seemed to Ebenezer that she sounded a mite peaked. He looked keenly at her. "You're looking green around the gills, yourself. Sea travel don't agree with you, I take it."

"No."

Her grim, curt answer hinted at a tale. A tale, Ebenezer suspected, that might do her some good to tell. "So, this wouldn't be your first voyage, then?"

"Second." She glanced at the dwarf, her expression forbidding. Clearly, she didn't want to take this particular tunnel.

But Ebenezer was not easily put off. He nodded expectantly, inviting the tale. When that yielded no result, he leaned forward slightly and pointedly raised his eyebrows.

With a sigh, Bronwyn capitulated. "I was taken south on a ship after the raid on my village. I was, maybe, three or four at the time."

"Stones," he muttered. The thought of a child, any child, being submitted to the terror of a sea voyage set Ebenezer's blood simmering with rage. Which, in his opinion, was a big improvement over a churning belly. Danged if he shouldn't a-got riled up early on in this voyage, and stayed that way. "Hard thing, especially on a kid that age," he said darkly.

"It was." She fell silent for a moment. "I never actually saw the sea."

Ebenezer's gaze dipped down to the endless silvery waves. He gulped and yanked his attention back up to the billowing clouds that dotted the sky. "No loss there."

"There's bad, and there's worse," Bronwyn pointed out. "At least this trip, I have a choice. On my first voyage I was kept in the hold, along with maybe a dozen or so other prisoners."

Imprisonment. The dwarf didn't quite manage to suppress a shudder. "That's worse," he admitted.

They sat in silence for a few moments. Ebenezer caught Bronwyn looking in the direction of his belt, and tracked her gaze down to his "wine skin." He had replaced it in Skull-port. The Burning Troll, whatever its other shortcomings as a tavern might be, kept dwarven spirits in stock. He untied the string that held the skin to his belt and handed it to Bronwyn. She uncorked it and took a long, fortifying swig. To Ebenezer's surprise, she swallowed the strong spirits- known among dwarves as "molten mithral"-without a cough or a sputter. He didn't know a human who could do that, leastwise, not without practice. Maybe, he mused, she had had more than a little experience with dwarves and their ways. Later he'd probably be tempted to ponder on that a mite.

Bronwyn corked the skin and handed it back with a nod of thanks. "For some reason, I was the only prisoner not chained. They treated me well enough, I suppose. I had enough food, a blanket, and a corner of my own to sleep in, and even a couple of toys. The others were destined for slavery-they spoke of it, wept over it. I don't think I was. Not at first."

"What happened?" the dwarf prompted.

"There was a storm," she said shortly. "A terrible storm that tossed the ship around like a leaf. The mast snapped, and some of the planking tore loose. The hold took on water."

She shuddered from the memory. "I climbed as high as I could onto a pile of crates. Everyone else was chained. I could do nothing but watch as they drowned, slowly, screaming and cursing like creatures damned to the Abyss." Her voice dropped to a near whisper, husky with the remembered horror.

"Hard thing on a kid," the dwarf repeated.

"Nothing else in the hold survived except me-and a few rats. They could climb, too, and they found any footing they could. By the time the water rose to my chin, there weren't many places left for them to perch."

Ebenezer suspected what was coming, and muttered a heartfelt oath. He stopped himself, just barely, from reaching for her hand.

"Two of the rats climbed onto my head. They fought each other for the right to be there. Nothing I could do would dislodge them." She smiled faintly. "When my hair is wet, and parted just so, you can still see the scars."

She drew in a long, ragged breath. "The sea calmed suddenly. I learned later that we had been caught in the wake of a waterspout, thrown off course and into the path of some Nelanther pirates. Without the mast, the ship could neither fight nor flee. Most of the crew were killed. The pirates seized the valuables and took all the survivors to be sold as slaves. It was night then," she added, "and there was no moon. That's why I never once saw the sea."

Ebenezer sat bolt upright. "So you ended up a slave after all?"

"That's right. This time, I was chained. The rest of the trip is a blur. I vaguely remember the marketplace, and standing on the block while people gawked and poked. I was sold. There is a dark cloud over the next bit. I think I was resold, or maybe I escaped and was recaptured. I really don't remember."

She sighed, and to Ebenezer's eyes she looked exhausted and drained by the recounting. He was sorry he had asked, but glad to know just the same. A good thing, it was, to know the measure of your friends.

That measure he could summon up in one short statement. "And after all that, you came out on this ship."

Their eyes linked in understanding. After a moment, the dwarf reached for her hand. Her long, fragile human fingers intertwined with his stubby digits. They sat together, gazing up at the cloud castle that floated gently past and at the silver sea beneath. It didn't bother Ebenezer quite so much now to see the heaving sea. His own kin most likely didn't have his kind of choice in the matter. As Bronwyn had said, there was bad, and then there was worse.

Algorind arrived in Waterdeep footsore and dusty. His boots had been made for riding, and the soles were nearly worn through by his days of walking. His once-white tabard was dingy with the dust of the road. He hated to present himself at the gates of the Halls of Justice in such a state, but his brothers must learn of Thornhold's fate.

He hurried through the streets. As before, he was struck by the noise and the crowds. How did men of Tyr hold fast to their faith, surrounded by such distractions and decadence? It puzzled him why the brothers would see fit to build the Halls of Justice in the heart of this teaming city. Better the remote hills, or the purity of a windswept mountaintop.

The gatekeeper at the Halls of Justice looked him up and down with obvious disapproval.

"It is most urgent that I speak with Sir Gareth," Algorind said. "Please bear word to him that Algorind of Summit Hall begs audience."

"Summit Hail, is it?" the guard said, his face showing a bit more warmth. "You'll be in good and abundant company, then."

Algorind's brow furrowed in puzzlement. "Sir?"

"You don't know? There's a group of young paladins and acolytes from the training school, led by Laharin Goldbeard himself. They are making a paladin's quest of it," the man said. His eyes grew warm and distant with remembered glories. "I would go myself, but for the injuries that keep me tending gate."

"Yours is an honorable task and a service to Tyr" Algorind said, noting the wistful note that crept into the knight's voice. "But sir, of what great task do you speak?"

"You have been out of the thick of things. Taking a time of solitude, like old Texter?"

"Not by choice. Sir, the task?"

The knight's face turned grim. "Why, the reclaiming of Thornhold, of course. Riders are taking word throughout the northlands. The Knights of Samular are gathering to march north. Paladins of other orders are joining in, and those who claim no order at all. It has been many years since such an anny of righteousness gathered together. May the Zhentarim tremble."

Algorind caught the gatekeeper's arm. "Sir, I have just come from Thornhold. I was but a few hours' foot travel away when the capture was complete. I saw the smoke of destruction rise, and exchanged blows with a Zhentish patrol from the army who took the keep."

The knight's eyes widened. "Why did you not say so at once? You, Camelior! Come here, and take this young knight to the council room with all haste."

Algorind fell into step beside his guide. He was led into the largest of the three buildings and into a vast hail. Six long tables dominated this hall, their edges cunningly shaped so that all fit together to form a single large hexagon. Paladins sat around the outer edge only, so that all could converse. Bright banners hung from the ceiling, proclaiming the standards of the many orders and the solitary knights who served the Halls of Justice.

Algorind's gaze sought out Sir Gareth, and he noted the stunned look on the old knight's face. This made him exceedingly self-conscious. Neatness and cleanliness were rules of the order and for him to appear thus was an affront, but Algorind had little time to consider his hero's response, for Camelior quickly relayed the message that Algorind had given the gatekeeper to the assemblage.

"Another seat, if you please," called Laharin.

Pages-young boys brought to the temple to be tested for suitability to the life of Tyr-leaped to do the Master Paladin's bidding. Algorind found himself escorted and seated with discomfiting ceremony. All eyes were upon him when Laharin urged him to speak.

Again Algorind's eyes sought out Sir Gareth. The old knight solemnly tapped one finger to his lips, reminding Algorind of his pledge of discretion. The conflicting duties made Algorind feel uncomfortably like a tethered hawk bid to fly and hunt.

"I rode north to Thornhold to carry a message of a personal nature to Hronulf," Algorind said carefully. Sir Gareth's faint nod assured him that these words were well chosen. "When I was but a few hours away, I saw black smoke rising into the sky. From the scent, I knew it to be a bier."

Algorind fell silent for a moment in respect to the fallen. All around him knights and priests bowed their heads or formed the hand gestures that affirmed their faith and commended the spirits of their brother knights into the hands of Tyr.

"I heard a patrol and lay ambush." Algorind blushed to admit this, but he was sworn to the truth. "There were four men, mounted and well armed. They were searching for a woman who had been in the fortress at the time of the attack. She escaped, and none knew how, but it seems likely that she took with her a ring that belonged to Hronulf."

Murmurs of consternation rippled through the hall. "And did you seek this woman?" demanded Laharin.

"Sir, I believe I caught sight of her. She was in the company of a dwarf and riding south for Waterdeep. If it is your wish, I will seek her out."

Sir Gareth rose slowly, and his expression was that of a man determined to meet a fate of his own making. "Brothers, I may be able to shed some light on this matter. Some days ago, a young woman came to me earnestly seeking word of Hronulf of Tyr. She gave me the name Bronwyn. A slight woman, with large brown eyes and very determined bones about the cheeks and chin, and a very long braid of brown hair. Is this the woman you saw?"

"By your description of her size and hair, it seems likely," Algorind agreed. "I was too far away to stop her, much less look carefully at her face."

Sir Gareth sighed and sank down to his chair. "I have gravely erred," he admitted. "I spoke of Hronulf to this woman, and perhaps my words sent her to Thornhold."

"Do not reproach yourself, brother," Master Laharin told him. "You had no reason to doubt the motive for the young woman's questions."

"No, none, but I did not pray to Tyr to test her heart and her chosen path. That was a terrible oversight." Sir Gareth's brow furrowed suddenly, and he looked to Algorind. "How is it that you are come so late with this news?"

This was the moment Algorind had been dreading. "My horse was stolen from me by the dwarf who accompanied the woman. I had to walk back to the city."

"In that case, your progress is most noteworthy," Laharin said dryly. "Tell me, did you fare any better in retrieving the child of Samular's blood?"

"Oh, yes, sir." Algorind said earnestly. He looked to Sir Gareth for confirmation.

The old knight swept the room with a steady gaze. "Upon hearing of the fall of Thornhold, I feared for the child's safety. She was taken to a place of secret fosterage, outside of Waterdeep. It seemed a wise precaution."

"But-"

Sir Gareth shot Algorind a glare that stopped his protest as surely as an arrow to the heart. How was it, Algorind marveled, that the knight could make this claim? He himself had delivered the child to Sir Gareth well before the fall of the stronghold and had been told at that time that the girl was to be taken to secret fosterage. Perhaps she had been moved to a safer place, Algorind concluded, finding consolation in this reasoning.

"How, then, are we to proceed?" asked a knight whose name Algorind did not know, a man of middle years and exceedingly ruddy visage.

"This young paladin has a quest to complete," Laharin suggested, nodding to Algorind. "He is able. The loss of his horse is the first fault I have seen in him in nearly ten years of training and service. Let him find the woman and the ring she carries."

"I agree," Sir Gareth said quickly. "With your permission, brothers, I would like to lend Algorind a horse from my own stables. This matter is too important to await his earning of another steed."

"That might not be needed," put in another knight. "A tall white horse was delivered to our gates just yesterday. Is it possible that this horse thief had a change of heart?"

"I will stop by the stables and see if the horse is mine, sir," Algorind said gratefully, "but I cannot speak for the dwarf."

Greatly relieved to have discharged his duties, and eager to see if the white horse was in fact his lost Icewind, Algorind requested permission to leave so that he might attend his new task.

Laharin's stern face softened as he studied his former student. "No, you are sorely tired and no doubt in need of food and rest. Clean the dust of the road from you, then return and break bread with your brothers. Lord Piergeiron has consented to dine with us. The pages will show you to the barracks, where you may wash and find fresh clothing. Return in all haste."

Algorind did not need prompting. One of the pages led the way to the barracks. He made short work of washing off the road dust and exchanging his worn garments for new. There was nothing to be done about the holes in the sole of his boots, but after the page attacked them with goose grease and rags, they were at least clean and well shone.

He hurried back to the hall, arriving just as the echoing call of horns announced Lord Piergeiron. He found his seat beside Master Laharin and rose with the others to greet the Lord of Waterdeep.

Piergeiron was a most impressive man, tall and well made. His brown hair was thick and only lightly touched with gray, though by all accounts he had lived more than threescore years. He nodded graciously to the assembled paladins, bidding them to take their seats. He carried himself with becoming modesty, Algorind noted, and wore none of the trappings that might be expected of a ruler of such a decadent city. But then the lord was a paladin, and the son of a paladin-the great Athar, the Arm of Tyr who in his time was as famed as Hronulf and Sir Gareth were in theirs.

Algorind felt himself humbled in the presence of such men, and he was grateful when no call was made on him to recount his recent misadventures. Indeed, there was little serious discussion over the meal. Men shared news they had picked up on the road and reminisced with comrades they had not seen for many years. It was a most congenial meal, ably attended by the pages who served it.

Algorind watched the boys at their work, approving of their skill and diligence. Service was the goal and the delight of a paladin, and all young men who aspired to Tyr's service began their chosen path in similar fashion. Boys were given menial chores and taught to do them cheerfully and well. It had been so with Algorind and with every man he knew. Better training than this he could not conceive. Tales of glory and heroism attracted many young men and a few young women to seek a paladin's path, but it was service, long and hard and inglorious, that tested out those whose dedication was true.

The meal was unusually grand for a paladins' hall, with three removes and wine with each course. Fine, boat-shaped salt cellars were placed every six men, and there was such an abundance of fine plate that only the youngest paladins and knights' squires were given bread trenchers to hold their meat. Algorind was dazzled by the variety. There was roasted venison, eel pie, pigeons stuffed with finches that were in turn stuffed with herbs, a fat rump of pork and another of rothй, fish, and small, savory pasties. There was even a sweet, a flummery rich with cream and dried apples. Algorind ate sparingly, not wishing to fall into gluttony and trying mightily not to harshly judge those who seemed less devoted to the keeping of that rule.

At last the final remove was carried away and sweet wine poured to end the meal.

"Lord Piergeiron, we have a grave matter to bring before you," Sir Gareth began. "We seek your assistance in finding a certain young woman, whom we believe might have stolen an artifact sacred to the Knights of Samular. Her name is Bronwyn. She is comely and brown as a wren, of small stature. We wish to learn more about her and her associates."

The paladin politely wiped his lips on the edge of the tablecloth, as was proper in good company, then turned to his brother knight. "I do not know of this woman, but I will have inquiries made. You have my word as the son of Athar, what I learn, you will know."

Solitude was a rare pleasure, and Danilo had intended to make the most of it. He had set aside the afternoon for private study and informed Monroe, his able halfling steward, to admit no one. He was more than a little annoyed, therefore, to have his fierce concentration broken by a tapping at his study door.

"Yes? What is it?" lie said, not bothering to look up from the arcane runes.

"Lord Arunsun to see you, sir. Shall I show him in?"

This time he did look up from the spellbook, startled by these most unexpected words. He met the haifling's gaze with a rueful smile. "Only if you can't think of a better plan," he said dryly.

"None comes to mind, sir," Monroe said with an admirable lack of inflection. He bowed and then hastened out to fetch his master's guest.

Danilo sighed. Khelben did not often visit him in his home, most likely because he was discomfited by the extravagance of the house's furnishings, the many musical instruments that lay readily at hand, and the bards and revelers who always seemed to be gathered at table or making merry in the parlor. Today Danilo was alone but for the discrete ministrations of the steward and the half dozen or so servants under his command. Dan had planned to learn a new spell. Hastily he opened a drawer in his table and thrust the book out of sight. Although he still kept to the study of magic that his uncle had started twenty years before, he was careful to downplay his interest in the art. It would not do to raise the archmage's hopes overmuch.

"Uncle!" he said heartily, rising to meet his visitor. He beckoned the archmage in and reached for the decanter of elven feywine that stood on his writing table. "Had you sent word you were coming, I would have had cook stir up something thick and bland in your honor."

"I've eaten." Khelben waved away the offer of wine and took the seat across from his nephew's writing table. He glanced at the new Calishite carpet that covered most of the polished wood floor with a tapestry in rich shades of red and cream, but for once did not comment on this latest extravagance. "You have heard of the recent influx of paladins to the city?"

So that was it, Danilo mused. No doubt Khelben was concerned about the possible connection with Bronwyn and had come to hear a report and deliver advice-advice that Danilo almost certainly would not wish to follow.

"Rumors travel," Danilo agreed lightly. Suddenly he dropped his faзade of determined cheerfulness and sank back into his chair. There were times that Danilo sorely regretted his increased role in Harper activities. His etstence had been much more congenial when the only life he was required to endanger or to answer for had been his own. Making decisions that could have grave consequences for friends such as Bronwyn, and for the other young Harper agents and messengers under his direction, was a heavy responsibility.

"The presence of so many paladins in the city worries me," he admitted, "and has given me cause to reconsider my belief that there cannot be too much of a good thing."

"For once, we are in accord," Khelben said. He looked as if he wished to say more, yet there was a most unfamiliar hesitancy in his manner that greatly increased Danilo's sense of unease.

Danilo bit back the flippant comment that came to mind. This was a time for straight and honest words.

"A paladin," he said thoughtfully, "may well be the finest, purest example of what a man can be-the epitome of all that is noble. And a paladin mounted for battle on his war charger, filled with holy zeal and absolute courage, might well be the most inspiring sight that many mortals could hope to see. He can, and does, accomplish much good. But a hundred paladins, a thousand? United in purpose, single-minded and driven by their sense of duty? I tell you truly, Uncle, I can think of no better definition of terror."

'These are not words you should repeat to most men," Khelben cautioned him, "and only to you will I say that, once again, we are in complete agreement. For this reason, I have long been wary of the paladin orders. These good men have a disturbing tendency to ride their war horses over whatever perceived obstacle they find in their path."

"You are either with a paladin, or you are against him," Danilo agreed. "There are no half measures, and few shades on their moral pallets other than black and white. I regretfully parted company with my old friend Rhys Brossfeather shortly after he entered Torm's service. My ways are not his, and that was too much of a stumbling stone for him. In fact, in the eyes of many paladins, I would dare say that a Harper is nearly as much an enemy as a priest of Myrkul."

The archmage nodded slowly. "That is well said, and therein lies our problem. It is impossible for Harpers to come out against one of the Holy Orders without incurring not only the wrath of the paladins but the suspicion of many of the common folk. In this matter, I am of divided mind. What would you suggest that we do?"

This question was the first of its kind, and Danilo quickly hid his surprise. "What we do best. Watch, report, and shape events in small ways. In the old days, the Harper who was most effective was usually unseen. I have already taken steps to measure the knights' interest in Bronwyn and their intentions."

"Oh?"

"Clearly, sending men to infiltrate the Halls of Justice would be a waste of time and effort, considering a paladin's ability to weigh and measure the intentions of those about him. So I have people watching over Bronwyn's shop, her usual contacts, even the shops and taverns she frequents. If the paladins seek her out, we will know."

The archmage nodded, satisfied. "Good. Have you made any progress in your studies?"

Danilo blinked. For a moment, he thought that the canny archmage referred to the half-learned spell hidden in his drawer. Then he remembered the other matter of contention that lay between them: Bronwyn, and the secrets of her past.

"Indeed I have," he said. He rose and crossed the room to a wall lined with books. Selecting one bound in fine red leather, he returned to the archmage's side.

"I read all I could find concerning the Knights of Samular. Quite an impressive group, with a long history. There were a few things, though, that did not ring true, not even when I discounted a bit of bardic exaggeration and the usual way legends have of growing in the telling. The capture of Thornhold was one such incident."

Khelben eyed him keenly. "You are not referring to the recent battle, the capture by the Zhents?"

"No, indeed. The original battle, in which the knights wrested the fortress from some petty warlord. Samular himself was involved, and apparently took personal title of the hold. Paladins were less conscientious about personal possession in those days, it would seem. And as Samular was from an exceedingly wealthy family, I suspect he was so accustomed to ownership that he considered it his right, not a violation of his vows."

"Leave such matters for the Heralds," the archmage said impatiently. "Continue."

"Well, according to the best information I can find, the paladins under Samular's command took the fortress in a single day, with a force of fewer than fifty men. Brunyundar, the warlord, had three times that many. Even taking into account the fervor and skill for which paladins are renowned, that seems an impossible feat."

Khelben nodded, following Dan's reasoning to the conclusion. "You believe they called upon the power commanded by the three rings of Samular."

"It is reasonable," Danilo said. "What that power might be, I do not know, but I think I can tell you how the third ring came to be lost."

He lay the book open on the table before the archinage. "This is a new-made copy, not more than five years old, of a very old lore book. The original was copied several times before over the years, but the scribes and artists were among the finest of their times, and I believe the reproduction is true. Look closely at this etching."

The archmage bent over the desk and studied the page. Danilo leaned over his shoulder and gazed at the drawing he had nearly committed to memory It was an exceptionally well drawn picture of a battle's aftermath, rendered with an accuracy that suggested that the artist had not only been present, but had possessed some skill or enchantment that enabled him to capture the moment with a near-magical precision. In the background was a stone stronghold, two towers surrounded by a stout, curving curtain wall. The doors were open, indicating that the fortress had already been taken. The stonework was sharp of edge and unworn by time. The terrain was rough and hilly, and seabirds wheeled overhead. Here and there about the outer wall lay fallen men, arrows bristling from their chests or throats. These unfortunates wore chain mail of larger, coarser links than had been in use for centuries, and wore crude helmets of a type not seen in many years. In the picture's foreground was a young man, his white cloak and robe deeply stained with his own blood. He lay supported in the arms of the burly knight who crouched beside him, and whose face was marked by deep grief. The two men were recognizable as brothers or at least near kin, though they were in many ways very different. The wounded man was young, slight, and small of stature. His face was narrow, his prematurely white hair dipped in the center of his forehead into a pronounced inverted peak, and his gesturing hands had long, supple fingers. He wore a single ring on the index finger of his left hand.

Danilo marked the sudden flash of recognition, quickly covered, that entered the archmage's eyes. "Do you know him?" the bard asked.

"I did. Or thought I did. That was many years ago," Khelben said shortly. "It is not a tale I wish to relate, so do not bother to ask."

It was rare that the archmage was so blunt. Clearly, this old wound had healed badly.

"Note those hands," he said, pointing to the dying wizard- for wizard he certainly was. That distinctive gesture, frozen in time by an artist who most likely did not understand what he recorded, was part of a long, difficult, and dire spell. A spell born of unquenchable pride and ambition, and a last recourse for a dying wizard who was not content to yield to death.

Khelben's eyes widened as the implication of that gesture struck him. He shot a concerned glance over his shoulder at his nephew. "How could you know what this means? What in nine hells possessed you to learn that spell?"

"Curiosity," Danilo assured him. "Not intent. I wished to know how such a thing might be done, but I have no wish to experience it myself."

"Good." Khelben expelled a long, shaky breath. "You are trouble enough as you are now."

"But you see my point."

"Indeed I do," the archmage said grimly, "and I believe I know where the third ring may be found. Unfortunately, Bronwyn is the only person alive who has a chance of retrieving it."