Thornhold

THIRTEEN

As it turned out, Bronwyn did not have to seek out Khelben Arunsun. He came to her.

The street outside of her shop was always alive with a pleasant clamor during the day and well into the evening. So the sudden lull in this bustle held a portent that few warning horns could match.

Bronwyn peered out the window and understood at once. Lord Arunsun and his lady, the mage Laeral Silverhand, strolled arm in arm down the street, stopping at shops to admire this or that trinket. This was far from a common sight, but Bronwyn suspected that this visit was for her benefit and that the other stops were visited so that she would not seemed to be singled out.

At that moment one of Ellimir's helpers came running out, a bolt of cloth-of-silver in her arms. She held up a length of it to show that it was of near color to Lady Laeral's hair. The two women haggled pleasantly for a few moments. Bronwyn watched, troubled by something but not quite able to pinpoint her concern. Then the young seamstress turned, and Bronwyn noted the heavy kohl that lined her eyes, the smudge of henna still on her cheeks.

So that was why the three-copper courtesan in the alley had looked so familiar, Bronwyn thought grimly. She was willing to bet good gold coin that this shop assistant was one of Danilo's Harpers.

That flustered and angered her. She drew back from the window and busied herself with some rare volumes as she collected her thoughts.

The bell over the door rang too soon for her comfort. The archmage and his lady were met at the door by Alice Tinker. Bronwyn had to admire the gnome's performance. Alice's response was perfect. She seemed overawed by the presence of two of the city's most powerful magi, and so eager to please that she resembled a puppy who regretted she had but one tail to wag. Anyone who witnessed the gnome's performance would have a difficult time believing that she had been a Harper informer for many years. Since Alice's admission, she had spoken freely to Bronwyn of her past. It was difficult to equate the motherly gnome with the fierce fighter she once had been, but Bronwyn could see how that very dichotomy would make Alice a more effective Harper agent.

Khelben looked somewhat bemused by the presence of a child in the shop. Bronwyn noted how his eyes followed Cara, but his countenance was too difficult for Bronwyn to read. She studied Cara herself and tried to imagine what the archmage saw. Cara was a small girl, exceedingly thin, and brown as a wren. Half-elf, that was obvious, but except for her delicate frame and the slight point to her ears, she looked more human than elf. Did the archmage also note that the girl followed Bronwyn like a second shadow? That, like her apparent mentor, the child had an eye for rare and pretty objects? Following Alice's lead, Cara brought choice baubles to show Laeral. Soon she was giggling and chattering, utterly charming the lady mage.

Khelben was not long content to stand to one side and watch the womenfolk exclaim over trinkets. Bronwyn caught his eye as she bent to hold a hand mirror so that Laeral could admire the effect of a necklace of rosy pearls.

She put the mirror into Alice's hand and straightened. "Can I show you anything, my lord?"

"Old tomes, perhaps? I see none about, but perhaps you have some that are not on display?"

Bronwyn took the hint and led him into the back room. He waited until she had lit a small oil lamp and shut the door. "You no doubt have many questions about your past," he said without preamble. "I believe I have the answers you seek. Or at least, I can tell you where they might be found."

Bronwyn listened as he gave her directions to the monastery of Tyr and a description of what she would find there. "That's two days' ride," she calculated, her face troubled. "I hope Alice won't mind looking out for Cara."

A hint of suspicion edged into the archmage's eyes. "This child. What is she to you?"

"She's a stray, like me," Bronwyn said lightly.

"Do you plan to adopt her?"

She sighed, her face wistful. "I wouldn't mind-she's a dear little thing-but she has a father."

Khelben considered this. Bronwyn wondered if he was comparing Cara's face to hers and seeing the resemblance. "She is kin to me," Bronwyn admitted. "She says her father's name is Doon. I have heard him called by another name."

"Dag Zoreth," Khelben said flatly.

Bronwyn blinked, startled but not really surprised to hear that Khelben knew of this. "Yes. Who is he?" she said urgently.

The archmage picked up a tome bound in green leather and put it back on the shelf, unopened. Fidgeting, perhaps? marveled Bronwyn, who had never thought to ascribe such simple mortal failings to the archmage.

"Dag Zoreth is a strifeleader… a priest of Cyric. Until lately, he served Darkhold as a war cleric," Khelben said bluntly. "He is also your brother."

Bronwyn sat down hard. "My brother," she echoed.

"Yes. You knew him as Brandon. He took the name Dag Zoreth shortly after he was abducted."

"Brandon," she murmured. "Bran." An image came to her: a small, pale face, narrow and intense, capped by hair the color of a raven's wing. He was a presence both fiercely beloved and vaguely feared. Bran and Bron, they'd called each other. Yes. It came to her again-not quite a memory; but at least the shadow of one.

She had a brother.

The thought struck her again, this time hard enough to hurt.

"It appears that your family has access to considerable power," Khelben continued. "Dag Zoreth wants that power. So do the paladins. This might be considered heresy in some circles, but I would no sooner see one side get their hands on it than the other."

"And Cara and I are in the middle," Bronwyn murmured. "You are in a most delicate position," he agreed, "a fulcrum between the Zhentarim and the Order of the Knights of Samular."

She gave him a rueful smile. "Not exactly what I signed up for when I pledged to protect the Balance."

"Nevertheless, it is the task that has come to you," Khelben said with a wry smile. "You are well suited for it. As a finder of lost antiquities, you must find three rings that once belonged to Samular and his brother and bring them back to safe keeping."

Bronwyn rose, her eyes intent upon Khelben's face. "Why?"

To her surprise, he didn't seem to find her question impertinent. "The rings are but part of the puzzle. There is a larger artifact, a power of some sort that the three rings together can trigger. This you must recover."

She thought it over and decided to speak the truth. "I already have two of the rings. One was given me by my father, the other Cara wears."

The archmage nodded as if he had expected to hear this. "I suppose I cannot persuade you to yield the rings into my keeping. Would you at least consider leaving the child behind? There are few places more secure that Blackataff Tower. Laeral seems quite taken with her, and I am sure she would not mind tending her until your return."

Bronwyn's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "This seems too neatly planned. You knew of her, too."

"Not until this moment," Khelben said plainly. "I had no knowledge of the child's heritage, and I would not have known her for who she is had I not seen the two of you together. Only then did I look for the ring and note it on her hand. But consider this: if one man can discern this resemblance and see the ring she wears for what it is, so can another."

Bronwyn's shoulders rose and fell in a sigh as she accepted the truth in the archmage's words. Poor Cara had been tossed around like a cork on the waves, and Bronwyn wasn't looking forward to telling the child that she would be left in the care of a stranger.

"I'll bring her around first thing in the morning," she said. "She'll need some time to get used to the idea."

The magi left the shop soon after, leaving Alice happily counting and recounting a pile of coins, and Cara sighing and starry-eyed over the gems she had helped to sell and the pretty lady who would wear them. Bronwyn noted this and was grateful. It would make things a little easier.

She crouched down so that her face was level with Cara's. "You liked Lady Laeral, didn't you?"

The girl beamed, and her head bobbed happily. "She's nice. She bought me this. It is mine to keep, she said." She showed Bronwyn a small brooch, shaped like the shadow of a leaping hart. It was a simple, pretty thing. It was also silver, and elf-crafted, and over two hundred years old. There were other pieces in the shop of greater value, but not many.

Bronwyn gently took the brooch from the child and fastened it to the shoulder of her new gown. "That was kind of her. I like Laerai, too. She's a good friend."

"She has magic," Cara said matter-of-factly. "Lots of it."

That surprised Bronwyn. "You can tell?"

Cara drew herself up. "Of course. Can't you?"

Well, this was an interesting twist, Bronwyn mused. She was no expert on the subject of magic, but she knew that the ability to recognize magical talent in another almost certainly meant that Cara was gifted. "Would you like to learn magic?"

She nodded avidly. "Today?" she said, hope ringing in her voice.

Bronwyn chuckled. "It takes a bit longer than that, but you could get a start. How about this," she said, twisting around so that she could sit on the floor and pull Cara into her lap. "Tomorrow morning, I will take you to the wizard's tower where Lady Laeral lives. She will play with you and take care of you and show you some magic. Would you like that?"

Cara considered. "Will you be coming, too?"

"Yes, but I can't stay," she said ruefully. "I have to go away for a while."

"Why?"

"We're not going to find your father if we don't look, right?"

The girl brightened. "I'll come with you."

"You can't. I'll be riding for several days. It will be dull and tiring, and it may be dangerous. You've had quite enough of that sort of thing to last you a long while. You'll be safe with Laeral."

The girl folded her arms. Her lip thrust out and her face turned, as portent as a thundercloud. "I'm tired of being kept safe and quiet and out of the way! I'm tired of staying in one place! I want to go with you. I want to see the places you and Ebenezer told me about."

Bronwyn sighed and stroked the girl's nut-brown hair. "Believe me, I know how you feel. if I stay too long in one place, I start feeling itchy, like ants are crawling all over me."

Cara giggled, then shivered. "I can feel them, too," she confided.

Bronwyn smiled faintly, both touched and grieved that this foundling of hers was such a kindred spirit. But perhaps, because of all they shared, she could make Cara understand.

"You know that the ship you were on was a slave ship, right?"

"Yes, but I was not to be a slave. The men said I was a sort of princess, and that I was being taken to a palace." Cara frowned. "They didn't listen to me, though, when I told them to take me back. You'd think a princess could decide where she wanted to go, wouldn't you?"

"I suspect that princesses have fewer choices than the common, everyday sort of girl," Bronwyn told her. "But sometimes things go wrong. I was on a ship like that, once, when I was much smaller than you. Pirates came and stole me, much as Ebenezer and I stole you and the dwarves, but they didn't set us free. I was sold to be a slave. The first person who bought me was very… unkind. I got away but was captured and sold again. This time, a gem merchant bought me. I had clever hands, and I could draw and use tiny tools very well by the time I was your age. I worked very hard, There was no time for play, no children to play with, and never quite enough to eat. All that I had of my own was a sleeping mat in a corner of the kitchen."

"They were mean," Cara decreed.

"They did not set out to be," she said, "but they didn't give me much thought one way or another. That was almost worse."

The child considered this, and nodded. "I'm glad you stole me back."

Bronwyn hugged her. "I am, too. I would do anything to keep you from that life.-even leave you in Blackstaff Tower for a few days, if that is what I must do."

"All right," the child conceded. Her face turned stern, and she shook her finger. "But if you stay too long, Ebenezer and I will come looking for you and steal you back!"

Later that morning, Bronwyn rode down to the South Ward to say good-bye to Ebenezer. The courtyard surrounding Brian Swordmaster's forge was alive with glowing fires, the ringing of hammer against anvil, and the voices of contentious dwarves.

As she tied her horse to the gate, Ebenezer caught sight of her. He immediately dropped his hammer and bounded over to her. "Where's the lass?" he asked. "You found her da yet?"

She told him what she had learned so far and of the attempt by Ebenezer's paladin friend to snatch her. His face clouded with concern as he listened.

"Smells funny to me," he said. "Paladins are supposed to be a rare breed, aren't they? They've been popping up far too frequent for my liking."

"The paladins are the lesser of my two problems," she assured him.

"Seems to me we don't know that just yet. You can't prove by me that paladins are all that different from any other breed of human. As I always say, think the worst, just in case," he offered. "And I don't like you walking into their den with nothing more than a how-d'you-do as shield and armor."

"I don't have time to argue, Ebenezer. I'll see you when I get back."

"And lots of times in between," he said. "I'm going with you."

"I'll be riding."

His eyes lit up. "You know I can ride. You still got that pony?"

"No," she said regretfully. "I left him at the public stable, with instructions that he be sold."

'Well now, that's too bad. I liked that horse better'n most men I've met. Got more sense. But I've got a few coins now, and the clan owes me. Might could buy my own pony."

"You don't want to be spending your earnings," she cautioned.

"Oh, don't I? One way or another, I'd-a go with you, if it means riding piggyback on a winged elf. You stood with me; I'm prepared to do the same."

At that moment a female dwarf hollered his name. He cast a look over his shoulder then leaned in to whisper, "And they've put me to work at a forge. Nothing wrong with that, but my feet start to itching if I keep 'em in one place too long. You'd be doing me a kindness," he wheedled.

Bronwyn capitulated with a grin. "Well, let's be off. We're going to need to get you a horse."

Algorind took his leave of Sir Gareth and returned to Curious Past, the scene of his previous failure. He puzzled over what he was to do when he found Bronwyn and the child. In this city, a man was not left alone to tend his duty. As he rode along, he noted many small watch patrols, busily tending the affairs of the city and minding the business of better men.

To compound this matter was the difficulty in tracking anyone through a city. He had learned to follow the sign of man, horse, or monster through the hills and moors, but a woman's passage through Waterdeep? A child's? How was such a thing measured?

He was still pondering this when he saw a small, furtive figure dash down a dark passage between two tall buildings. He caught a glimpse of a long, brown braid flashing around the corner.

Algorind swung down from his horse and quickly tied the reins around a lamp post. He no longer felt secure that his mount would be there when he returned, but he could not afford to worry about that now. He hurried down the narrow way in pursuit.

The woman ducked down two more alleys and then disappeared into the back door of a large frame building. Algorind could hear the clatter of looms as he approached, and above the noise, the sound of frantic footsteps dashing down wooden steps.

He followed her into the building and down the stairs. The smell of moisture, dirt, and root vegetables grew stronger, and a bit of light came in from a small, iron-grated portal placed high on the cellar wall.

When Algorind reached the dirt floor, he pulled his sword and squinted into the gloom. His eyes could not yet discern anyone else in the cellar, but he was certain he had heard her come this way.

A sharp, short, grating sound broke the stillness, and a torch flared high. Algorind found himself facing four men, all armed with swords and wearing enormous, evil-looking grins. The biggest smile was on the man he had followed- a scrawny runt of a man with a face much pocked by some forgotten sickness, and a long, braided tail of brown horsehair in his hands. This he brandished mockingly at Algorind, fluttering his eyelashes in a parody of feminine wiles.

His comrades laughed uproariously at this and then began to close in. From above them, the steady clack and clatter of the looms never once faltered.

Too late, Algorind realized the trap into which he had been lured. These men knew the ways of a city and had prepared a place where they might fight undisturbed. Well, by the grace of Tyr he would give them the fight they sought.

He held his sword out slightly to the side, his every muscle alert and ready. The first man dashed at him, sword held high and two of his fellows hard on his heels. Algorind lunged forward with a quick, precise motion and ran him though the heart. He ducked under the next attack and stabbed upward at the third man, felling him, too, in a single blow. A skitter of feet behind him dragged to a quick stop on the dirt floor. Algorind rose and spun toward the man who had run past him. It was the man who had tricked him, and he came in with a vicious, upward-sweeping backhand. Algorind caught the sword in a ringing parry. He pressed in close and with his left hand punched out over the joined blades. The man staggered back and again Algorind lunged. His sword sank between the man's ribs and darted back out.

The paladin turned swiftly back to his fourth and final foe. This one was the wiliest of the group, and the worst- content to watch his comrades die as he took the measure of his opponent.

The man was nearly as tall as Algorind, and though not as broad, he had a lean, sinewy look and a way of holding the sword that bespoke long acquaintance with a blade. He lifted the sword to his forehead in a salute that seemed only partially mocking.

They began to circle each other, then exchanged the first ringing blow. His foe was quick, Algorind noted, and fought with a clean economy of motion. The man had been trained, and trained well.

The paladin feinted high. His blow was met and then matched by a quick, spinning cut downward. Algorind parried and answered with a lunge. In all, three fast strokes of steel on steel, coming quickly one after another and each delivered with strength.

Speed, then. The paladin began a stunning routine, raining a quick series of blows upon the man. His opponent stopped each, and got his own in beside. For several moments the two swords rang in rapid, steady dialogue.

The fighters fell apart by unspoken agreement, answering the unique rhythm of their deadly dance. Again they circled, tested, parried.

This time the assassin came in, his blade working Algorind's low and his hand hovering over the knife strapped to his belt. The paladin understood. The man intended to come in over the swords with a knife, much as he himself had served the trickster with a barehanded punch.

But Algorind was ready for him. The young paladin's masters had trained him in many styles of fighting. This one marked the man as from the Dales, a rough but generally peaceable area far to the east and inhabited for the most part by goodly farmers, rangers, and foresters. What had happened to his man, Algorind wondered, to bring him so far from where he once stood?

Some of the pity he felt must have crept into his eyes for the former dalesman to see. A convulsive twitch darted up from his clenched jaw to his anger-filled eyes, and the man drew the knife. But emotion overpowered strategy and he drew too soon and swung too high.

Algorind easily caught the knife on the hilt of his own and sent the man's wild blow out wide. He reversed the direction of the swing and brought the hilt of his knife in hard against the man's nose. Bone shattered, and bright blood spilled down over his worn leather jerkin.

The man came on again, swinging wildly now, all discipline gone. Algorind easily stopped and sidestepped the blows. With a sense of something like regret, he swiftly ended the battle with a stroke across the man's oft-exposed throat.

He stood for a moment over the body of the man, to murmur a prayer for a soul gone astray, a worthy opponent fallen to his own weakness.

Algorind cleaned his sword on a handful of straw that covered a bin of last summer's carrots and slid the weapon back into his sheath. His knife he kept in hand, and he took the torch from the wall holder into which it had been thrust. He had been caught unaware by treachery once this day, and that was all he intended to yield.

At the top of the stairs, he snubbed out the torch, tossed it into the alley, and retraced his steps to the street. To his great relief, his horse was where he left it. He untied Icewind's reins and pondered what next to do.

It seemed likely to him that the woman Bronwyn and her dwarf comrade were somehow behind this. He would immediately report this information to Sir Gareth and leave the matter in his hands.

The knight was in his office, going over a ledger and wearing an expression of martyred resolve. He looked up when Algormd announced himself, and his gray brows rose in question.

Algorind told him what had occurred. The knight considered this for several moments, then reached for parchment and quill. "Go to the barracks and clean yourself up. We will bring this matter to the First Lord himself."

In moments they left the Halls of Justice, bound for the First Lord's palace. It was an easy matter for Sir Gareth to gain an audience with Lord Piergeiron. When he and Algorind rode to the gates of the lavish palace, they were met by uniformed guards and taken at once into the First Lord's presence.

Once again, Algorind found himself discomfited by the unseemly splendor around him. The palace was an elaborate structure built entirely of rare white marble, crowned with a score or more of turreted towers and much elaborately carved stonework. The inside was even more lavish. A fountain played in the center of the great hall, and marble statues of heroes, gods, and goddesses encircled the room. Tapestries of incredibly fine detail and brilliant color hung in lavish profusion. The courtiers were richly dressed in silks and jewels-even the servants wore finery appropriate to a young knight's investiture.

They were led up a broad, sweeping stairway, down a succession of halls to the tower that Piergeiron claimed as his own. Here, at least, Algorind found himself in familiar surroundings. The First Lord's study was simple, almost austere. The walls were bare but for a single tapestry. The only luxury was a profusion of books, and the only comfort a small fire on the grate.

Piergeiron rose to greet them both, with bluff good nature and a comrade's firm handclasp. "Welcome, brothers! You have been much in my thoughts. How goes the preparation for battle?"

"Well, my lord," Sir Gareth said. He nodded his thanks when Piergeiron indicated a seat, and waited until all were seated before speaking again.

"Paladins from all over the northland are gathering for the assault on Thornhold. In another tenday, perhaps two, our numbers will be sufficient for the march north."

"That is good news," the paladin lord agreed. "The sooner the fortress is back in the hands of your good order, the safer will be the High Road for all who travel it."

Sir Gareth inclined his head to acknowledge this praise. "There is other news, my lord, that is not so pleasant to hear. This woman we spoke of. She had been up to mischief since last we met."

Briefly, the knight told the story of Algorind's arrest and the ruse played on him by assassins who lured him into ambush. He also mentioned, much to Algorind's chagrin, the theft of the young paladin's horse by a dwarf known as Bronwyn's companion. He told of her visit to Thornhold at the time of the assault, and her suspicious escape-doubly suspicious in light of the fact that the Zhentarim commander who took the stronghold was Bronwyn's brother. Sir Gareth ended his litany by repeating that Bronwyn stole a valuable artifact belonging to the order.

Piergeiron absorbed this in troubled silence. "I have had information gathered on her, but none so dire as this. The young woman has an excellent reputation in her chosen business, and she appears to live a quiet life."

"Yet she has interesting associates. A brother among the Zhentarim, a dwarf horse thief a rogue gnome. Did you know that Alice Tinker, the shopkeeper employed by Bronwyn, was once known as Gilanda Quickblade? She was a thief and 'adventurer,' later recruited to the Harpers."

"I did not know this," Piergeiron admitted.

"There is more," Gareth continued. "A frequent visitor to her shop is a young nobleman, one Danilo Thann. Is he not the Harper involved with the new harding college?"

The First Lord nodded grimly.

"I must wonder what he wants with this Bronwyn. She is no bard. Either she is a lightskirt or a Harper." Sir Gareth's tone suggested that there was little difference between these two evils.

"I have met young Lord Thann on several occasions. He is exceedingly fond of gems and other fine things. Perhaps he merely purchases items from Bronwyn's shop."

Sir Gareth lifted his eyebrows. "Do you believe that?"

"No," the First Lord sighed. "I will look into this matter and send word to you as soon as I can. Will that content you?"

"It does indeed. The word of Athar's son is a bond that no steel can break," Sir Gareth said heartily. He rose to leave, but hesitated. "There is one thing more. I have no wish to forestall any efforts your officials of law and order might wish to take, but may we also search for this woman ourselves and bring her to Tyr's Hall of Justice to answer for herself? Will you trust me in this matter?"

It seemed to Algorind that Lord Piergeiron looked relieved to hear a question that could be answered simply. He rose and extended his hand in a pact. 'Who could deny a brother paladin? And who could better dispense justice than Tyr?" he said heartily.

The two men, paladin and knight, clasped wrists in an adventurer's salute. "Who indeed," echoed Sir Gareth.

Bronwyn packed up Cara's few belongings and prepared to deliver her to Blackstaff Tower. Cara appeared to take it in stride. It made Bronwyn proud to note how adaptable and resilient the child was.

What made this more remarkable was that the child had no true anchor other than her own inner strength. Cara would be fine, Bronwyn assured herself as she packed for the trip ahead, and that indeed seemed to be the case until they got to the base of the smooth, black wall that surrounded the archmage's tower.

Bronwyn dismounted and went over to Ebenezer's pony to lift Cara down. To her surprise, the child threw herself on the pack horse. She scrambled up onto the bundles and glared down at Bronwyn with a defiant, tear-streaked face. "I want to come with you!"

Bronwyn sighed. 'We've been over this, Cara. You can't. It will be very dangerous."

"Take me with you," Cara insisted.

"I'll take you into the tower," Bronwyn bargained. "And I'll stay for some of Lady Laeral's tea and biscuits. How's that?"

The girl folded her arms and sniffed. "Not good enough." Ebenezer elbowed Bronwyn. "Make a decent merchant, she would," he said in a low, amused voice.

"You're no help," she muttered. She cast a look of appeal toward the smooth black stone on the tower, wondering if someone within could see her plight.

Her silent plea was quickly answered. Laeral emerged, walking through apparently solid stone and looking like a living waterfall. She was a tall woman, taller than most men, and slender as a birch tree. Silver hair, thick and abundant, had been left unbound to cascade in waves over her bared shoulders and fall past her knees. The mage's silvery gown, cut low and cunningly fitted to both cling and swirl, was appropriate for an evening of dancing and revelry. Earrings like a shower of falling stars glittered at Laeral's ears, and her necklace was an intricate web of silver filigree and still more crystal. The outfit was extravagant, absurd-and perfect.

Cara's jaw dropped, and her eyes rounded in wonder. "You look like magic," the child pronounced. "And lots of it."

The mage's eyes lit with warmth and humor. "And so shall you, Cara. We will have some breakfast, and then we will begin. Would you like that?"

The child was utterly and obviously enchanted. Even so, her eyes slid to Bronwyn's face, and she bit her lip in indecision. "Yes… " she said hesitantly.

"And I got a new flitterkitten," Laeral continued, "just this very morning. She is a very pretty little white kitten with snowy white wings, but she is just learning to fly and she truly needs someone to take care of her."

This was just the extra bit of inducement that Cara needed. She promptly put out her arms for help. Bronwyn lifted her down from the pack horse, giving Laeral a grateful look over Cara's brown head.

"We will do just fine here, you and I," Laeral said as she took the girl's hand. Noticing how Cara gaped at her glittering rings, she selected a ring that flashed with fire and ice and slid it onto the child's small hand. Instantly the ring sized itself to fit the tiny finger

Bronwyn nodded in approval, understanding how this would appear to Cara. The child had a ring from her father and knew it to be important; she would view another such gift as a very significant thing. Laeral was apparently as wise and insightful as she was beautiful.

Wrapped in a nearly tangible delight of magic and each other, the two turned and disappeared into the seemingly solid black wall. Neither of them looked back.

Bronwyn sighed again and wiped the back of her hand across her eyes. She swung herself up onto her horse and started out for the Northgate.

They rode in silence for several minutes. Ebenezer glanced over at her. "You look like you got something on your mind."

She managed a faint smile. "I was just now wishing," she said softly, "that I had thought to give Cara a ring."

Beneath the streets of Waterdeep lay a maze of tunnels, and beneath that another and then yet another, layer upon layer of secrets carved deep into mountain stone. Two men strode through one such tunnel, a simple passage that ran between Blackstaff Tower and Piergeiron's Palace, a tunnel accessible only to the men who ruled in those places. It was by its very nature a lonely place. The only sounds were the drips of water falling from the rounded ceiling, the clicking of their boots upon the stone floor, and the occasional squeaking of rats-creatures that went wherever they pleased, in casual defiance of lordly might.

They walked in silence, their thoughts on the meeting ahead. Khelben Arunsun's stern face was more solemn than usual, creased with something approaching dread. His nephew thought he understood, at least in part. Such power as the archmage wielded put him on a summit few could hope to climb. But for his lady, Khelben was very much alone, and he carried burdens more diverse and wearisome than most mortals could bear to contemplate. Khelben had lived long and outlived many; lovers, friends, comrades, even his own children. That Danilo could not begin to comprehend-how could any man bear the burden of life, when his own children had long ago turned to dust? He suspected that the archmage was soon to suffer yet another loss, the loss of one of the best and oldest friends remaining to him.

The passage ended at a tightly spiraling stairway. Danilo stepped aside so that Khelben could ascend the stairs first. At the top of the spiral, the archmage tapped at a stout wooden door, a door that, on the other side, was simply not there at all. At Piergeiron's summons, he opened the door and the two men stepped through a tapestry, into an oak-paneled sitting room.

Piergeiron greeted them warmly, his famed charm very much in evidence. He poured wine from a jeweled decanter, had a servant bring a tray of fruit and cheeses. He inquired after the archmage's household and the bard's work, chatted about songs he had heard and people they all knew. Danilo had been well versed in the art of meaningless words, and for some time they chatted pleasantly about small and inconsequential matters.

Through it all, Khelben watched his old friend with an expression that suggested he was seeing him anew, by a different light. Danilo observed this with growing unease. He had seen Piergeiron and Khelben together several times, and though their friendship was as unbalanced as that which sometimes occurred between a barn cat and a draft horse, it was of long standing. There was usually an easy comfort between them that today was utterly missing. Nothing the First Lord did or said could be faulted in the slightest, but Danilo sensed the change in the man, as surely as a forest elf could scent the coming of snow in the autumn wind.

He wondered how many more moments would pass before Khelben broke the awkward pattern. The archmage was not by nature a patient man, nor inclined to calmly endure such treatment at the hand of an old friend. Better a sharp insult, a sudden blow, than this polite and mannered scrambling for distance.

"A young woman reputed to be a Harper agent has run afoul of a paladin brotherhood," the archmage said bluntly. "I assumed you summoned me here to discuss the matter. If so, speak plainly, and I will do the same."

"Very well, then." Piergeiron set his wine goblet down. Far from insulted, he looked relieved to be back on familiar ground. With admirable directness, the First Lord set his concerns out, based on Sir Gareth's report.

"Let me put your mind at rest," the archmage said at once. "Bronwyn is indeed a Harper agent. She does have an artifact of Tyr in her possession, that much is true, but she is on her way, even as we speak, to Summit Hall, a monastery of Tyr."

Piergeiron's expression eased. Danilo cast a furtive look at the archmage, wondering if he felt even a twinge of guilt for misleading his old friend. Khelben had not actually stated that Bronwyn was returning the ring, but clearly Piergeiron thought that this was the case. It did not seem that Khelben intended to disabuse him of that notion.

"I am relieved to hear this, my friend, but I must admit to some lingering doubt about Bronwyn's intentions. According to Sir Gareth, she has been asking around for a priest of Cyric. Her brother, no less."

Khelben did not so much as blink. "She has reason to seek him out. The Harpers and the Zhentarim have long been foes."

Another truth that cloaked a lie, Danilo mused. Was this, then, what Harpers must become? As time went on would he, like Khelben, so manipulate his oldest friends and twist the truth to serve the Balance? Later, he would have to give this matter serious consideration, but this was not the time. He schooled his face to reveal nothing of his troubled thoughts.

Khelben leaned forward. "To speak truly, Piergeiron, I would be wary of Sir Gareth's motives in this matter."

The First Lord looked offended. "He is a paladin of Tyr!"

"He is of the Order of the Knights of Samular," Khelben specified. "I do not argue that the paladins are anything but good and holy men, but I am wary of the orders. One man's righteous conviction is a fine thing, but imagine the evil that could be done by so many, of such power, in the single-minded pursuit of a goal they believe to be good. I would hate to see Bronwyn swept up in such a rushing tide."

Piergeiron shook his head in astonishment. "I do not believe what I am hearing."

"At least consider my words. I have long looked askance at the military orders, especially the followers of Samular. Recently, I have come to suspect that there might be good and sufficient reason for this."

The First Lord rose, his face stern and his eyes shuttered. "When, and if, you find evidence to support this unease, please tell me at once. You will forgive me if I do not wish to speak of this again until that time."

Khelben rose in response to the dismissal. If he felt the chill of his friend's tone, it did not show in his eyes. "Believe me, my friend, when I tell you that I hope I am wrong on this matter."

They moved swiftly through the polite gestures and words of leave-taking, and the Harpers left the palace. As they made their way back through the tunnel, Khelben's silence was heavy, troubled. It occurred to Danilo for the first time that the archmage might finally have entered a battle that he could not hope to win. How could any man go against paladins without appearing to side with evil? And what man alive-especially a man who had lived Khelben's long years and wielded his vast power-did not have in his past some secrets that would support this supposed charge of wrongdoing? Danilo did not know of any particulars, but Khelben's reaction when they discussed the history of the Knights of Samular led him to believe that at least a few of the archmage's secrets might be bound up with this order.

"What you said to Piergeiron…" Danilo ventured. "You spoke of this thing ending badly, but hoped that your predictions would prove wrong. Do you believe that a likely possibility?"

The archmage sniffed. "Do you want an honest answer?" A wry smile lifted the corner of Danilo's lips. "I suppose not."

"I've noticed," Khelben said in a voice heavy with weariness, "that people seldom do."