Thornhold

FOUR

Ebenezer stalked down the river path, as stealthy as one of Tarlamera's cats. Most humans he knew thought dwarves were about as subtle as an avalanche, but the truth was, any dwarf worth navel lint could travel his tunnels as silently as an elf walked the forest.

For that reason and a host of others, what happened next was downright embarrassing. One moment Ebenezer was walking along behind the three humans, well out of range of their torchlight and their limited vision. The next, he was netted like a fish.

The heavy ropes thumped down on him, hard enough to knock him on his backside. With a craftsman's instinctive appreciation for made things, Ebenezer noted that the net was strong and heavily weighted along the edge, then threaded through with another rope like a drawstring on a leather coin bag. Ebenezer was hard pressed, though, to imagine humans strong enough to draw it shut. He looked up through the web of rope and saw the pair of grinning half-orcs on the ledge above. One of them raised his hand to his nose in a tauntingly obscene gesture, and then the two of them began to haul him up.

The first jerk swept the rope drawstring underneath him and toppled him over. Angry now, the dwarf reached for his hunting knife and began to saw at the net. One strand pinged open, then another. He was almost within reach of the half-orcs when the net gave way. Ebenezer wriggled through the opening and fell heavily to the stone path below.

The impact of dwarf meeting stone rumbled though the cavern. The humans turned and lifted inquisitive eyes to the ledge above. The half-orcs shouted out a warning and began to scramble down the sheer stone wall toward their prey.

Ebenezer whirled, axe in hand, to face the approaching humans and their half-orc henchmen. The eager grin on his face faded as his eyes fell on the one holding the torch. He was a tall man, wearing a short purple and black robe. His shaved head was as bald as the skull emblazoned on his oversized medallion. Ebenezer knew that symbol and didn't much like it. A priest. Men, he could fight, but add a lying coward of a human god into the mix, and suddenly Ebenezer didn't much like his odds. But there was no time to consider the matter. The half-orcs finished their climb and came at him, weapons in hand.

For many moments the ring of steel against mithral rang loud over the spring song of the river. Then another sound edged into Ebenezer's consciousness, a low, ominous chanting. Dread seized him, and he flailed frantically in an effort to cut down the fight and get to the priest before it was too late.

But his axe began to grow heavy and his limbs slowed. Even the sweat-soaked ringlets of his hair began to relax, hanging straight and limp before his increasingly bleary eyes. The song of the river, too, began to slow, until the rush and babble seemed to become words that he could almost, but not quite, make out. Soon, even that faded away, and there was only darkness, and silence.

He awoke later, stiff in every limb and with a headache that no amount of ale could produce. Cautiously, he sat up. He lifted his hand to his head and bumped against wood. Blinking rapidly, he managed to clear his vision and began to sort out what was what.

First off, he was in a cratelike cage. A good, sturdy one, made of thick slats of wood. Instinctively his hand dropped to his axe loop. The weapon was gone, of course. His cage was in a small alcove, a little cave just off the river. It appeared to be a treasure trove of sorts. His captors were avid collectors-Ebenezer recognized some of the items he'd seen in the osquips' hoard. His captors had gone through the trouble of keeping him, rather than killing him outright. Which-and this pained him to admit-would have been the sensible thing to do.

"Seems like I'm some sort of treasure," Ebenezer muttered, more to raise his spirits than from any belief in his own words. "About time someone recognized what I'm worth."

But even as the words formed, the dwarf began to realize the truth behind them. There was only one reason for them to keep a dwarf alive, something that any dwarf worth lizard spit would happily die to avoid.

He'd been captured by slavers.

The gate to the western wall of Darkhold creaked open. Dag Zoreth's horse, recognizing the Zhentarim fortress as home, suddenly shook off fatigue, nickering and prancing in its eagerness for the stable. Dag absently reined in the horse and fell into ranks behind his scouts. He, unlike his steed, was not particularly keen on entering the fortress that had been his home for several years. The time he'd spent away, and the knowledge that he was on the verge of acquiring his own stronghold, enabled him to view the Zhentish fortress with new eyes.

Darkhold was as grim and forbidding as any place Dag had ever seen or imagined. The castle itself was enormous, constructed on an exaggerated scale from huge blocks of red-streaked gray stone. Legend had it that blood was mingled with the stone and mortar. Dag did not doubt it. An aura of evil and death emanated from the castle as surely as the smoke rose from the spike-encircled chimneys of its many towers. Set in a deep valley, surrounded on three sides by steep, sheer stone cliffs, and on the other side by the high, thick wall through which his caravan had just passed, the fortress was virtually impregnable. The valley floor that lay between the gate and castle was flat and rough and littered with stone, barren but for a winding brook that sang sadly on its path over jagged rocks and a small, besieged copse of trees.

The massive outer gate clanked shut behind them, and Dag rode through the bleak valley to the inner wall surrounding the castle. Thirty feet tall it was, and nearly as wide. The four-man patrols that walked the wall met and passed each other with room to spare.

The caravan paused at the end of a deep moat and waited while the iron portcullis rose. The bridge swept down to meet it, gears grinding in a chilling metallic shriek that sounded to Dag like a playful dragon raking its claws over a sheer slate cliff.

Dag and his men crossed the bridge into a massive courtyard. He swung down from his horse and handed the reins to an instantly attentive soldier. After a few terse words to his men-reminding them of the penalty they would suffer for divulging any aspect of the trip-he strode through the great open door, and through a banner-draped hall with impossibly high ceilings, sized to accommodate the long-dead giants who had built the fortress.

He stopped before one of the giant-sized doors that led out of the hail. A smaller door had been cut into the center of the massive portal, one more manageable for the current, human inhabitants. Dag felt every saddle-sore muscle as he walked stiffly up two spiraling staircases and down another hail toward the richly appointed suite of rooms that served as his private quarters.

Dag had earned such luxury. He had served Darkhold as part of the new cadre of war-priests since its inception nearly four years ago. During that time he bad risen to a position of considerable power among the clergy, second only to Malchior. Even Kurth Dracomore2 the castle's chaplain and the not-so-secret informant of Fzoul Chembryl, ruler of far-off Zhentil Keep, observed Dag with a wary and respectful eye.

The young priest nodded to the pair of guards who paced through the hall on some errand. He could afford to be gracious-his preparations for the conquest of Thornhold were going extremely well. He had sent word to Sememmon, the mage who ruled Darkhold. Sememmon had applauded his plan and bid him return to the fortress for his pick of men to take to his new command. The mage approved of initiative and ambition, as long as those who possessed it did not threaten his own position. And Dag Zoreth had no ambition to rule in Darkhold. He preferred to claim his own territory. This conquest did not represent the zenith of Dag Zoreth's ambitions-far from it-but it was a reasonable next step. It would add to the rapidly growing power of the Zhentarim, and also bring him great personal satisfaction.

A faint purple haze lingered on the door latch-a warning to those who might be tempted to enter uninvited. Dag quickly disabled the spells that guarded his door and stepped into his chamber. Immediately the lamp beside the door turned on of its own accord, even as he was reaching for flint and stone. The room was suddenly warmed by golden light, the rich, spicy aroma of scented oil-and the soft, heady, and menacing sound of seductive female laughter.

Before the startled priest could unleash a defensive spell, the shadows at the far side of the room stirred. A slim figure, an elf woman of supassing beauty, rose from the bed and stepped into the circle of light. She was clad only in a sleeping gown of fine, deep red silk. Her long flaxen hair had been left unbound to ripple over the pale gold skin of her shoulders.

Dag's heart missed a beat, then thudded painfully. It had been many years since she had come to his chamber, and never had they met so in Darkhold.

A small, knowing smile lifted the elf's exquisite lips as she regarded the dumbfounded priest. Surely she knew that apprehension, not desire, glazed his eyes and stole the scant color from his face. But as if to taunt him, she gathered up a handful of her clinging skirts. "You recognize this gown, perhaps? I wore it the night our child was conceived."

"Ashemmi." He spoke her name in an admirably controlled, well-modulated tone. "Forgive me if I seemed somewhat surprised. I had thought you wished to forget the brief time we shared."

"I forget nothing. Nothing." She floated closer, skimmed the tips of her fingers down the line of Dag's jaw, then touched the point on his forehead where his dark hair dipped into a pronounced widow's peak. She tipped her head to one side, regarding him. "You have grown more handsome. Power does that to most men."

"By that measure, our lord Sememmon is second only to Corellon Larethian himself," he said dryly, naming the elven god who epitomized male beauty.

Ashemmi laughed-a beautiful, uniquely elven sound that reminded Dag of fairy bells and delighted babies. But she eased away from him, which was exactly the response that Dag had intended to evoke with a mention of the wizard who was her lord and lover.

Her face clouded slightly as she recognized his ploy. "Sememmon is secure in his position," she said firmly. "All the more so now that you plan to establish your own hold. He was growing wary of you, you know." Her voice rose in a coquettish lilt, and one eyebrow lifted in subtle challenge.

Dag understood, and fell at once into the almost-forgotten rhythm of subtle predation. At this art, Ashemmi was a master. With a few words, the minx intertwined the deadly competition of Darkhold's hierarchy with a tantalizing reminder of her considerable personal charms. A volatile balance indeed. Anything he said, whatever note he struck, could be dangerously wrong. This knowledge quickened his pulse, and rekindled the dark pleasure he had last tasted nine years before. Dag was not a man for simple carnality, but this was a game he appreciated, and this was a woman who played it well.

His equilibrium restored, the priest strode over to a small table and pulled the stopper from a bottle of fine elven spirits. He poured two goblets and handed one to the elven sorceress. She raised it to her lips, savoring the scent and the taste with tauntingly slow and disturbingly thorough enjoyment-all the while eyeing him over the edge of the goblet. Dag merely sipped his drink and waited for her to have her say.

Finally she tired of this ploy and set the goblet aside. "You are patient, my poppet. You were always so. Once, I found it rather… charming."

"Times have changed," he observed in a bland tone that nonetheless managed to convey a dozen shades of meaning.

A brief; appreciative smile flitted across the elf's face. Next to power and beauty, Ashemmi appreciated subtlety above all else. She came closer, close enough to envelope him in the scent of her perfume-an enticing and incongruous mixture of night-blooming flowers, musk, and brimstone. "Times have changed," she agreed. "I have lately come from another visit to Zhentil Keep. The signs of its destruction are almost vanished."

"Gratifyring," Dag commented, then took a casual sip of his wine.

"Very." She reached out and took the goblet from him, turned it and slid the tip of her tongue over the place on the rim his lips had touched. "It is a time to rebuild what once we had, and to seek new… heights."

"You were always ambitious," he said, deliberately taking her words only at face value.

This amused her. She set the goblet down and began to walk in a slow circle around him. "Opportunities are great for those who have the strength and wit to take them. You could do very well. Your devotion to the Zhentarim is beyond question, and your spells are stronger than those of any other cleric in the fortress. Indeed, you rival the spell power of all Darkhold's wizards but two!" She paused when she came around to face him, closer than she had been before. So close that he could feel the heat of her, and the ice. He sternly banished the awareness of her from his eyes, even when she reached up to unleash the clasp of his cloak. The dark garment fell unnoticed to the floor.

He cleared his throat before he could think better of it. "You flatter me."

"Not at all. I say nothing more than truth." Ashemmi toyed with his medallion, tracing her finger over the engraved sunburst pattern.

Instinctively Dag clutched the medallion, and the secret hidden behind it. He could not risk her or anyone else discovering the ring. On the morrow, he would have it sent to his daughter for safekeeping. To distract a suddenly interested Ashemmi from the source of his concern, he lifted the medallion over his head and dropped it in a silver vase that stood on the table.

A flicker of triumph lit the sorceress's eyes. Her hands dropped to his belt, to which were affixed his weapons and his bag of potions and prayer scrolls. From another woman, this would be nothing more than a logical next step. Not Ashemmi. Dag had set aside one sign of power: she sought to strip him of another. Trust Ashemmi, with her passion for irony, to seek to geld him thus.

Dag captured one of her roving hands. He reached for her wine goblet and closed her fingers around it. "Why these questions, this sudden passion for 'truth?' I never noticed that it held much interest for you before."

Suddenly the elf's golden eyes turned hard. She took a step back and impatiently flung the goblet aside. "Let us speak plainly. You have intelligence, talent, ambition, and the good will of those who rule in Zhentil Keep. Why do you insist upon besieging a fortress? What have you to prove?"

So that was it. Somehow, she had heard of his plans, and was puzzled by them. "You ascribe too many complications to my thinking. My motives are simple," he informed her. "I merely wish to command my own stronghold. The fortress I desire is, regrettably, not currently under Zhentish control. Correcting this problem is a small matter." He paused and slid one hand through the silken curtain of her hair to cup the nape of her neck, then tightened his grip just to the point of pain. "But truly, your concern for my well-being is most touching."

She arched back to lean into his grasp, and her lips curved in a feline smile. "Why would I not be concerned? After all, you are the father of my only child."

Dag's heart quickened at this second reference to the child that, to his way of thinking, was his alone. Ashemmi had been happy enough to turn over the babe eight years earlier, fearing that her climb to power might be hampered by a half-breed brat clinging to her silken skirts. All she had asked from Dag-no, demanded of him-was a vow of absolute secrecy. This was the first they had spoken of the child, or of much else, in eight years.

He smoothed his hand down her back and made an effort to steer the conversation onto a safer path. "Your concern is noted, but the reward is worth the risk. The fortress will be a good acquisition for the Zhentanm. It is strategically located on a major trade route."

"And it is far from Darkhold. Let us not forget that. You could have your precious child at your side and not concern yourself with any need to share her-or the power she carries."

The priest felt the blood drain from his face. This seemed to amuse Ashemini. Again she cocked her head and studied him. "Now I understand the whispers of the common soldiers," she purred. "Do you know what they say of you, when they feel certain that they will not be heard? You are so pale and austere, so light of step and delicate of frame that you seldom make a sound, barely cast a shadow. You unnerve them. They say that you resemble a vampire in all things but the fangs!"

Beneath the obvious insult in her words lay several layers more, reminders that Dag Zoreth was a small man, a physical weakling in a fortress of warriors. But he smiled nonetheless. His hand dipped lower, his fingers dug into firm and yielding flesh. "If you desired to do so, you could inform them that my teeth are sharp."

Her laughter bubbled over again. "It is so much more amusing to let them learn at their own peril." She sobered quickly, and moved beyond reach of his punishing caress. "We were speaking of your plan for an assault on a mountain fortress. Surely you know of the difficulties inherent in a siege! It is a long and costly process. The fortress you desire is but a few days' march from cities unfriendly to our cause, which greatly lowers your chances of success. Do you think Waterdeep would allow a Zhentish army to lay a lengthy siege, when in five days they could muster enough fighters to engage you in open warfare?"

Dag had considered all of this and prepared for it. He captured a lock of her pale gold hair, let it slide between his fingers, and skimmed his hand down the slender length of her. "Set your mind at ease. I do not intend to lay siege to the fortress."

"No? What, then? You cannot believe you can conquer it outright. There are not enough warriors in the whole of Darkhold to accomplish such a feat. Nor could you move a force of the needed size without drawing attention. The alarm would be sounded before you left the Greycloak Hills! What then?" she demanded again.

His eyes grazed the feminine form that Ashemmi's crimson gown did little to hide. "It is dangerous to reveal too much to an enemy. Or have you not heard?"

She smiled again, darkly, and her arms lifted to twine around his neck. "If enemies are well matched, battle can be a pleasant diversion. Tell me, and then we need talk no more."

Dag reminded himself of his vow to have nothing more to do with this viper in elf form. "I have been preparing this attack for a long time. Arrangements have been made to ensure a successful, if unorthodox, escalade."

"You can do better. I remember well," she breathed in his ear.

He stepped back while he still could. "Content yourself with this: the capture of this fortress will not deplete Dark-hold's military strength. I do not plan to shatter the Pereghost and his commanders against the fortress walls," he said, naming Ashemmi's chief rival for the position of second-in-command. He inclined his head in a brief, ironic bow. "I apologize for any inconvenience this might cause you."

They studied each other in silence. Dag Zoreth had no intention of telling Ashemmi that he would gain much more from the assault than the possession of a fortress. She already knew too much, as her presence here demonstrated.

"You have been forthright. Now it is my turn," she said, as if she followed the path his thoughts were taking. "You are planning to bring the child to your new command."

Dag's heated blood suddenly cooled. "Why should you care? You gave her into my hands willingly enough. I have kept my pledge. Few know I have a daughter, and no one knows who gave birth to her. No one need ever know, least of all Sememmon."

Ashemmi's smile was that of a cream-sated cat. "Ah, but perhaps I want him to know. Why should he care whom I bedded some ten years ago? It is of no consequence-unless, of course, the child that resulted is of the bloodline of Samular…"

Dag had been dreading this revelation since Ashemmi's first mention of their child, but even so the implications staggered him. Why should Ashemmi want his daughter, unless she knew of the power the little girl could command? He fervently hoped that if Ashemmi had received this information from Malchior, it was by theft or magical spying. The thought of these two conspiring together was more chilling than a ghost's embrace. If Malchior learned of the child's existence, there would be no safety for her. But surely Ashemmi would not give up such valuable information, not when she could hoard the girl's power for herself! Unfortunately, with a subtle, treacherous creature such as Ashemmi, there was no knowing for certain.

He decided to bluff. He closed the distance between them and his hands skimmed down her back, cupping her intimately and drawing her close. "Samular, indeed," he murmured into her hair. His voice revealed nothing more than mild, derisive amusement. "What is some long-dead paladin to you and Sememmon? Perhaps you two are thinking of changing your occupation and allegiance?"

Ashemmi sniffed, but apparently did not deign that comment worthy of rejoinder. "There is power in the bloodline of Samular, even more than you realize."

His hands stilled. Her bald claim stunned him, intrigued him. Given what he already knew-and his suspicion that Malchior had not told him all-he did not doubt the possibility that Ashemmi's words held truth. He drew back a little and met her probing gaze. "What precisely do you want from me?" he asked bluntly.

An expression of distaste darkened Ashemmi's golden eyes. "Must we spell out our terms? Haggle our way to agreement like vulgar merchants?"

"Indulge me."

The elf smoldered, then shrugged. "Very well, then. I want the child brought here. I wish to explore her potential. Then we will see between us what use might be made of it, and her."

This was more than Dag could bear. For years he had bided his time, not risking a possible revelation of his heritage until he was in a position to protect the innocent child who carried, unknowing, the bloodline of Samular. All this, Ashemmi could carelessly undo, and she would just as easily toss the girl aside if there was no benefit to keeping her.

He thrust the sorceress away from him. "It is a poor excuse for a mother who would so exploit her own child," he said coldly.

"And a poor excuse for an ambitious warlord who would not," Ashemmi snapped back. "Remember yourself, and while you are about it, bear me ever in mind. This situation presents opportunity to us both, provided we are clever and discrete in how we proceed."

"And speaking of discretion, how will Sememmon respond, when he learns that you have been keeping this matter from him?" he retorted.

The blatant threat set Ashemmi's eyes aflame. "If he or any other person in Darkhold learns of the child from you, it will be from conversing with your spirit. I will tell Sememmon, in my own way and at a time that suits my purposes. I! Agree, and you and your misbegotten brat might be permitted to live out your meager, allotted span. Am I understood?"

Dag Zoreth regarded the elf with a degree of loathing normally reserved for the creatures that occasionally oozed up through the fortress midden. "Of course, Ashemmi. I understand you very, very well."

"Good," she purred, drawing out the word. She languidly swept her arms high, and her gown dissolved into a swirl of crimson mist. The haze floated out to envelope Dag, as intoxicating as smoldering poppies.

Ashemmi's smile was hard and enticing. "As long as we understand each other, let us have one more secret to keep from our lord Sememmon."

For one long moment, Dag wavered on the precipice of indecision. He could step back, he could turn away and quit this room, leaving Ashemmi naked and furious. He could.

Instead, he breathed in deeply of the mist. He held the enchanted fragrance until the power of it nearly burst him asunder, and then he moved through the crimson cloud toward her.

On the second day after he had received his quest, Algorind reined his horse to a stop on a hill overlooking a cozy valley. Smoke from the evening fire rose from a snug stone cottage. Geese strutted contentedly near a small pond, and a small herd of rothe cropped at the grass in an enclosed pen. Soil had been turned for a kitchen garden, and already a few neat rows of seedlings rose from the rich soil. He caught the sound of a woman's teasing voice and the bubbling response of happy, childish laughter.

As he gazed at the homey scene, Algorind marveled that an evil man should have provided such ease and comfort for his child. By all appearances, this was a goodly household, unknowing of the alliance they had made. Perhaps they knew nothing of their fosterling's heritage. But surely, if they were goodly folk, they would see the wisdom in turning the child over to him for her good and that of the order.

At that moment the cottage door opened, and a tall, brown-haired woman strode out. She held her apron bundled up before her with one hand, and with the other began to strew grain for the chickens and geese. They came running in eager response to her clucking calls.

Algorind's eyes widened. At first glance, the woman was seemly enough, modestly clad in a simple linen shift draped with a long kirtle. But the color of her kirtle alerted and alarmed him. It was a deep, vivid purple, a color that was expensive and difficult to achieve, and a hue that no simple, decent goodwife would wear.

Her husband came out of the lean-to that served as a horse barn, and Algorind's hand went to his sword. Not a human at all, but an elf Algorind's practiced eye measured the elf's gait, his way of holding himself; the watchful readiness of his posture and his face. This was no mere farmer, but a well-trained wamOr.

The truth came to him then. The priest of Cyric had arranged his daughter's fosterage with evil subtlety. Who would suspect a simple farm family of harboring a Zhent's child? Who did not assume that the elves were goodly folk, best left to go about their business? These were no simple folk, happy in the gift of a child that the gods had not seen fit to send them, but hirelings of an evil priest. The deception kindled Algorind's wrath. He drew his sword and urged Icewind into a charge.

As he thundered down the hill, the woman shrieked and fled into the cottage. The forgotten grain cascaded among the squawking, scattering chickens. Algorind came at the elf with a mighty swing. The elf deftly dropped and rolled aside. He came up with a long knife in each hand and deadly intent in his catlike green eyes.

Algorind dismounted and strode forward. He met the elf's first darting blow, swept it easily aside, riposted. The elf met his thrusting attack just as easily. For several moments they stood nearly toe to toe, in a ringing exchange of blows delivered with nearly equal skill and passionate conviction.

In his training, Algorind had learned of many styles of sword play. This elf fought like a Sembian, a two-handed style of quick attack, a street-fighter's technique best suited for a short, decisive battle and a fast retreat.

"You fight well," Algorind panted out between parries. "But you are far from home."

The elf hesitated, startled by this pronouncement. The sudden sharp pain in his inhuman eyes brought something rather like pity to Algorind's heart.

"It is a sad and evil world," the paladin continued, "when goodly men or even elves are drawn into the plans of evil men."

Algorind barely dodged a vicious slash. "It is the good men who sent me here!" the elf snarled, speaking for the first time. He advanced in a flurry of slashing, darting attacks. For many moments it took all the paladin's skill merely to hold him back.

"The tanar'ri Vladjick," the elf said, his voice raw with exhaustion and bitter rage. "Do you remember that story?"

The paladin did, and acknowledged it with a brief nod. A terrible demon, a tanar'ri, had been summoned by an evil man's ambition. Years before Algorind was born, knights of the Order of Samular had marched against the creature. The battle had been long and fierce, and the tanar'ri had fled into the forest north of Sembia. An elven community lay between the paladins and their evil foe. The elves had resisted the passage of the knights through their forest, thus allying themselves with the evil tanar'ri. Many good and noble knights had fallen in the fierce fighting. Ever since, some of the order had remained wary of elves and their unknowable, inhuman ways.

"I remember it," the elf gritted out. "I will always remember it! The knights slaughtered my family for no better reason than that we were elves, and we were in the way."

Again he advanced, but this time emotion outbalanced control. Algorind caught one of the elf's flailing wrists in his left hand and stuck the elf's other hand aside with the hilt of his sword. The elf was slight, almost frail. It was a small matter to hurl him back, to advance with sword leading. A single, decisive thrust finished the battle and silenced the lying elf forever.

Breathing hard, Algorind went to the cottage. He hoped the woman would be more inclined to see reason.

The cottage was empty, the back window open. Algorind circled around, easily picked up and followed the tracks of the woman's feet into the small orchards beyond.

He followed her through the spring-flowering trees and cornered her against the high stone wall of a pig pen. She whirled, the child in her arms, and entreated him wordlessly, her face streaked with desperate tears.

For a moment Algorind hesitated, wondering if he had been tragically misinformed.. Woman and child were both slender, and both had brown hair decently plaited. But there the resemblance ended. The woman was human: the child, half-elf Surely this was not the daughter of Samular's bloodline!

"Don't hurt her," the child said in a remarkably clear, bell-like voice. There was more anger than fear in her tip-tilted elven eyes.

"I have no wish to harm you or your mother, child," he said gently.

"Foster mother," corrected the child, showing a regard for truth worthy of a child of Samular.

"Woman, is this the child of Dag Zoreth, priest of Cyric?" Algorind demanded.

"She is mine! She has been mine since her birth! Go away, and leave us alone," the woman pleaded. She set the child on the ground and pushed her behind her purple skirts, shielding the girl with her own body.

This put Algorind in a quandary. Surely this brave and selfless response was not the behavior of an evil hireling. He fell back a few paces, sword still ready in case of sudden treachery. His eyes remained on the purple-clad woman, but his focus drifted past her and his lips moved in prayer. The power that Tyr granted all paladins enveloped him. In the name of the God of Justice, Algormd weighed and measured the woman before him.

Pain struck him like tiny knives to the temples. An image came to him, that of a purple sunburst and a glowing black skull. Algorind drew in breath in a quick, pained gasp. Tyr had spoken: the woman was allied with evil-great evil. She followed the mad god Cyric.

But Tyr was also merciful, so Algorind drew himself back, away from the god-given insight. "Woman, will you renounce Cyric and the evil bargain you have made? Give the child into my hands and live."

Her eyes flamed, and she defiantly spat at the ground by Algorind's feet.

Algorind's way was clear, yet still he hesitated. Never had he killed a woman, much less one who was unarmed and untrained. And certainly never in the presence of a child.

"Run, child," he advised kindly. "This is not for your eyes." But the girl was as stubborn as her foster mother, and she stayed where she was. All that was visible were her tiny hands, clutching at the woman's bold purple skirts. Algorind summoned a silent prayer to steady his resolve and to drown out his own protests against this terrible duty. He struck a single, merciful blow. The woman slumped to the ground. The child regarded him over the body of her foster mother, the purple skirts still fisted in her hands and her eyes wide with terror. Then, suddenly, she turned on her heals and ran like a rabbit.

Algorind sighed and put away his sword. His paladin's quest was growing more perplexing by the moment.

Bronwyn did not sleep well that night. In the room above the Curious Past, she tossed and twisted in her bed. Her dreams were filled with long-forgotten images, childhood memories awakened by Malchior's revelation. Her father's name was Hronulf. He had been a paladin of Tyr. He had expected something of her, something important. As a child, she had not understood what that was, and she could not piece together enough images to gain an understanding.

She awoke before dawn, determined to find answers. From what she'd heard of Tyr's followers, the early hour would be no deterrent. Quickly she dressed and slipped down to the shop.

Alice, her small brown face tight with motherly wrath, was already awake and waiting for her. She brandished her feather duster at Bronwyn with a gusto that would not have been out of place had she been wielding a flaming sword. "And where do you think you're going at this hour?"

Bronwyn sighed and leaned against a green marble statue. she'd retrieved from Chult. "I have business, Alice. A business, I might add, that employs you."

The gnome snorted, not at all cowed by this reminder of her status. She shook a stubby brown finger at Bronwyn. "Don't think I don't know what time you came in last night. You're up to something, and I want to know what. Let me help you where I can, child," she said in a gentler voice.

"All right," Bronwyn relented. "I'm going to the Halls of Justice to talk to some of the paladins there. I might have found word of my father."

The gnome sank down to sit on a carved chest. "After all these years," she said faintly. "Who gave you this word?"

"A Zhentish priest. The one who commissioned the amber necklace," Bronwyn answered. Anger at Malchior's treachery crept into her voice. "He's up to something, and I intend to know what."

"Yes, I suppose that's for the best," Alice murmured absently. "You'll be back this morning?"

"Not before highaun. I've got to stop by the Ilzimmer gem shop on Diamond Street. They're repairing and cleaning the gold setting on that emerald piece."

"Fine. I'll pick up something from the market for a midday meal," the gnome said.

Bronwyn nodded her thanks and walked out into the dark streets. The sky overhead was beginning to fade to silver, and many of the street lamps were guttering as the night's supply of oil ran low. Despite the early hour, the city was not sleeping. Though the Street of Silks was considered by the wealthy to be a place to shop, dine, or seek entertaiament, many hardworking merchants lived above their shops and taverns. Smoke rose from chimneys as servants and goodwives started the breakfast fires. A cart rumbled past, drawn by a pair of stolid oxen and guided by a sleepyeyed driver. Wheels of cheese and casks of new milk filled the cart, and the somnolent cat lying atop a cask opened one eye to regard Bronwyn.

She quickly reclaimed her horse from the nearby public stable and set off toward the temple of Tyr. The Halls of Justice was a complex of three large buildings, somber, square edifices of gray stone that formed a triangle around a grassy field. It was not a grim scene, however. Banners hung in a bright row from the balcony of the main building, standards, no doubt, from the various paladins' orders. Though the sunrise colors still streaked the sky, a dozen or more men and three women were already busy with weapons training.

Bronwyn stated her business to the young knight at the door. His courteous manner warmed and brightened at the mention of Hronulf.

"You are in good fortune, lady," he said in animated tones. "Sir Gareth Cormaeril is in residence today. He was a great friend of Hronulf's and a partner in arms in their youth. You will surely fmd him in the exchequer's study, attending to the business of his order. Shall I escort you there?"

"Please." Bronwyn listened carefully as the young man continued to extol Sir Gareth, Hronulf, and the former great deeds of the mighty warriors. He told the story of the Zhentarim attack and the terrible wound that Gareth received defending his friend's life.

"Sir Gareth serves the Order of the Knights of Samular still as exchequer in charge of funds. Hronulf, of course, is still on active duty."

Bronwyn's heart thudded at this news. Her father was still alive? For some reason, that possibility had never occurred to her. She had hoped only to hear stories of him. Never had she dreamed that she might see him again with her own eyes.

The chatty young knight kept talking, but Bronwyn did not hear another word until she stood at the door of Sir Gareth's study. The knight made the introductions and left her there.

Sir Gareth was a handsome man in late middle life, robust still despite the wound that rendered his right arm virtually useless. He graciously received her and sent a servant for tea.

"You wish to know of Hronulf Caradoon," he said. "May I inquire what the source of your interest might be?"

Bronwyn saw no reason to prevaricate, yet instinct and habit prompted her to tell less than the whole truth. "I have been looking for my family for many years. It is possible that Hronulf might have information that will help me in my search."

Sir Gareth leaned back in his chair and regarded her thoughtfully. "That is most interesting. Hronulf, too, has suffered a loss of family. I am certain he will be most sympathetic to your plight and will do all that is in his power to aid you. Of course," he said with a faint, proud smile, "he would do so regardless."

The wann regard in the knight's blue eyes touched her. "I am told that he is your friend."

"The best I ever had, and a better man that this world deserves," Sir Gareth responded. "But meet him, and judge for yourself"

The knight reached for ink and parchment and wrote a few words. He sprinkled the ink with drying powder, then shook the excess away. He rolled the letter into a scroll and handed it to an attentive scribe. "My seal," he instructed absently, and then turned back to Bronwyn.

"Bear this letter to Hronulf, as my introduction. He is captain of the fortress known as Thornhold. Do you know it?"

"I have heard of it. Off the High Road, perhaps two days' ride north of Waterdeep?"

"That is correct. Ah, thank you," he said, taking the sealed missive from his assistant. He handed the scroll to Bronwyn. "Do you desire an escort? I am not at leisure to accompany you myself, but I would gladly send trusted men to guide and protect you."

Bronwyn smiled her thanks and shoved aside the hint of resentment that his paternalistic tone inspired. It was a gracious offer, and should be graciously received. "You are very kind, Sir Gareth, but I will be fine on my own."

"Then may Tyr speed your path. You leave soon?"

"Today," she agreed.

He rose. "Then I will not keep you. If you would be so kind, bear my regards to my old friend."

She agreed and took his offered hand, then swiftly left the Halls of Justice. She passed the Ilzimmer shop without stopping to inquire about the progress of the commissioned repairs. After all, her client's family had been missing the emerald brooch for over a century. A few days more wouldn't alter matters much.

The Street of Silks was lively with mid-morning commerce by the time Bronwyn arrived at her shop. But to her surprise, the door to the Curious Past was closed, and a sign proclaimed that the shop would open after highsun.

Bronwyn frowned as she fumbled in her pocket for her extra key. This was unlike Alice. The gnome was the most faithful shopkeeper in all of Waterdeep, which was saying a great deal. What could have happened to inspire her to close the shop during the busy morning hours?

Memory edged into Bronwyn's mind, bringing with it questions she had not had time to consider, and a suspicion that made her heart hang like lead in her chest. The Harpers had known where to find her the night she'd met with Malchior. Either they had followed her footsteps during the entire tumultuous day-which was unlikely-or they had been informed of her intended meeting place. Malchior and his henchmen had received word of the meeting place shortly before the appointed time. Only one other person knew her plans.

Alice.

Bronwyn thrust the key back into her pocket and turned her steps south, toward the tall, smooth black tower where all Harper business seemed to converge. As she worked her way through the crowded street, Bronwyn reminded herself that she was accustomed to treachery and betrayal, that she faced it every day and made deft provisions to survive it. It was nothing new, and usually it was nothing personal.

Why, then, did her eyes burn so painfully with unshed tears?

Ebenezer stared glumly at his cage. The wooden slats were hard and thick enough to keep a whole den of beavers busy until sundown. Without knife or axe, he had little hope of getting free.

Yet that was precisely what he had to do. Humans and half-orcs in the tunnels, catching dwarves and sticking them in cages. That was trouble. Spelicasting priests were even worse, and who knew how many more of them were roaming around? He had to get free and bring warning to his clan.

The dwarf rose up on his knees and took another look around. The men had returned a while back and had crated up the osquips' trove. Zhents, they were, and intent on plunder. The cave was full of stout boxes, locked and wrapped with chains. There was nothing lying about handy that he could use as tool or weapon, even if he could find a way to reach it. Nothing at all but a few paces of stone ledge and a long drop to the river.

Inspiration struck. Ebenezer scuttled to the far side of his cage, crouched, and launched himself at the opposite wall. The cage tilted, then crashed onto its side. He shook his head to clear it, then repeated the maneuver. He moved the cage over to the ledge, one painful crash at a time, and prayed to every dwarven god who'd ever wielded a hammer that be could finish the job before the racket brought back the dwarf-stealing Zhents.

Ebenezer paused at the very brink of the ledge. One more time, and he'd crash to the stone path below. The cage simply could not survive the impact, and he would be free.

"This is gonna hurt some," he admitted, then hurled himself against the cage one last time.

To Algorind's dismay, the child did not take kindly to her rescue. She fought him until they reached Rassalanter Hamlet, where he gratefully turned her over to the nurse Sir Gareth had employed. After downing a a cup of strong tea, the child fell asleep, and stayed asleep in the privacy of a covered carriage, until they reached Waterdeep.

With great relief he entered the grounds of Tyr's temple, and sent word ahead to Sir Gareth as he had been instructed to do. In moments, the old knight met him at the gate, on horseback and ready to travel. To Algorind's surprise, Sir Gareth led him not into the complex, but down the street toward the sea.

"This matter required great secrecy," Gareth reminded him. "If the child is to find safe, appropriate fosterage, few can know of her arrival in Waterdeep."

"But surely she would be safe in the Halls of Justice," Algorind ventured.

The knight looked at him kindly. "Many visitors come to the Halls of Justice, seeking aid or information. We cannot risk that the child's presence be discovered. Some might come to us with questions. Why place the brothers in a position where they must either betray us or lie? What they do not know, they can deny in good faith."

"I'm sure that is wise," Algorind agreed, though for some reason he still felt somewhat troubled.

"It is necessary," Sir Gareth said firmly. "You may leave the child in my hands now, your duty complete."

Algorind hesitated. "What would you have me do now? Return to Summit Hall with word that the child is safely in your hands?"

"No, better that you ride first to Thornhold with a message to Hronulf. He should have word of his granddaughter."

The knight reached out and placed a hand on the young paladin's shoulder. His face was grave. "I have a new charge for you. Stay with Hronulf for as long as needs be. I fear that perilous times are coming, and I would feel more content for my old friend's safety if I knew that a young knight of your skill and valor guarded his back."

"I will happily do as you ask, but I am not yet a knight," Algorind felt compelled to add.

Sir Gareth smiled, but his eyes had the faraway expression of a man who regarded distant glories. "Do this, and I swear to you that you will die as a paladin should, fighting alongside fellow knights."

As he entered Khelben's study, Danilo recoiled in suprise. There was a slight swelling to one side of the archmage's jaw, where Dan had struck. His lingering ire vanished, replaced by guilt and puzzlement. Khelben could easily heal himself-why would he choose not to?

"Our last discussion seems to have made more of an impression upon you than I intended," Danilo ventured.

The sharp, sidelong look Khelben sent him showed a hint of self-deprecating humor that most men would think entirely foreign to the archmage's character.

"Apology accepted," Khelben said brusquely. "Now, to the matter at hand."

He nodded toward the other occupant of the chamber, a gnome woman who sat clenching the arms of a too large chair, her feet stuck straight up before her like a child's.

"Alice," Danilo said warmly. "It's good to see you again."

"Save the pleasantries," the archmage cut in, "and listen well. A situation has arisen that requires me to divulge information that until now was best left unspoken."

Khelben strode over to his writing desk, absently picked up a quill, and crumbled it in his hand. "Alice tells me that Malchior has given Bronwyn information on her past. She is even now talking to Tyr's followers. This creates a grave situation and puts her in considerable danger."

He dropped the ruined pen into a wastebasket. A small, claw-tipped orange hand reached up and caught it from the air. The smacking, chewing sounds that followed spoke of the discrete disposal that awaited any discarded written drafts that might otherwise reveal the archmage's business.

"It is certain that members of the Zhentarim know of Bronwyn's identity. Soon the paladins of Tyr will know this, as well. They may tell her of the power that her heritage brings. Paladins and Zhents will wish to exploit it, and her."

Danilo nodded slowly. He hadn't resolved his anger at Khelben's machinations, or his own sense of confusion over his part in uncovering Bronwyn's identity, but at least he was beginning to see Khelben's reasoning. He didn't like it any better, but understanding helped. A little.

"And what is this power?" he inquired.

The archmage grimaced. "I do not know the whole of it," he admitted, "but this much I can tell you: the Knights of Samular have in their possession three rings, artifacts of considerable power. They can be worn and wielded only by blood descendants of Samular."

"Which Bronwyn is," Danilo put in.

"Yes. What these rings can do, and where they are held, I do not know. Hronulf wears one of them, another was lost in the raid on his village. The third has been missing for centuries."

The archmage turned to Alice. "And this is where you come in. Find out what Bronwyn knows, and report back at once."

"I'm to tell her of the rings, aren't I?" Alice asked anxiously. "It won't be easy admitting to her that I've been keeping watch over her these four years and more, but the time has come."

"Not yet," Khelben cautioned. "You are to act as you always have. Watch, listen, and report."

"But-"

He cut her off with a single stern glare. "Find out what she knows," he repeated. "And that is all."

The dismissal was unmistakable. Alice slid off the too-tall chair and nodded her head in a curt, barely respectful bow.

Danilo watched her go, fully understanding how she must feel. The little gnome considered Bronwyn a friend, and yet she kept secrets from her because it was her duty as a Harper to do so. Clearly, it didn't sit well with the proud former warrior. It didn't sit well with Dan either, if truth must be told. He wondered how much longer either he or Alice would be able to give duty greater weight than friendship.