Morgrim hissed sharply at the question. Aidan watched the priest’s handsome face transform into a mask of bitterness, his sensual lips curling like asps. “Truth!” he shouted. “You want me to tell you the truth?”
Aidan felt the priest’s power gather in the room, a predatory silence that filled every corner of the chamber. It swelled, a hungering beast threatening to blot out even the fragile beating of Aidan’s heart. He closed his eyes against the funereal force, struggling to breathe. It was as if he had fallen into an abyss, a dark womb from which nothing ever emerged. Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the silence fled. With a gasp, Aidan opened his eyes.
“The truth is,” Morgrim continued softly, as if regretting his loss of composure, “if the Prince of Lies had called you, your soul would be serving him even as we speak.”
The priest moved even closer to Aidan, brushing his fingers across the captain’s chest as he finished speaking. Aidan stood transfixed, his heart pounding wildly, whether from Morgrim’s words or his featherlight touch he wasn’t sure. He only knew that at this moment, he stood closer to death than ever before.
Nervously, Aidan cleared his throat, looking away from the promise in Morgrim’s steady gaze. “Why,” he repeated his question, “did you save my life? Tell me, priest.”
Morgrim walked toward the old, scratched table and poured himself a glass of wine. “I have need of you.”
Aidan sat down on the bed. “You have need of me,” he repeated, his voice quavering between disbelief and incredulity, “For what? I will not participate in your murderous rites-even if you send me to Cyric as a slave.”
The priest shot Aidan a glance, bright eagerness alight in his eyes. “And what of yourself? Do you not kill? Does your sword not taste the blood of the living?” Morgrim took a quick sip of wine and thunked his goblet down on the table.
“I am a Purple Dragon,” Aidan protested. “I fight against injustice for the honor of Cormyr-”
“You are a soldier! You fight where you’re told to,” interrupted Morgrim. “When the Cormyrean king unleashes his Dragons upon Sembia or the Zhentarim, what do you think the Sembian farmers say to comfort their families? They say, ‘Do not worry, I go to fight for the honor of our people and our land.’ And when tho8e farmers die, pierced by the teeth of your swords and your spears, who is it do you think greets them on the other side of death?”
Aidan tried to reply, to say that he was different. He knew in his heart that he was no murderer, but the words died on his lips. Finally, he said, “I cannot find the words to debate you, priest. But I know what I am.”
“Peace, Aidan,” the young man said. “It is not your words that I require.” Morgrim’s voice was gentle, sliding once again into velvety tones. The sound soothed the old warrior, calming him so much that he barely heard the priest call him by name.
He looked up, surprised. “How did-”
Morgrim held up a thin, graceful hand. He took another sip of wine and said, “The thieves weren’t the only ones waiting for you in that alley. Someone stole an object of great importance from my order, an object that I have spent many months searching for.”
“The dagger,” Aidan cut in.
The young priest nodded. “Yes. The dagger, as you so elegantly call it, is the Linthane-a high priestess’s ceremonial blade and the symbol of her authority.”
Aidan drew his hand across his grizzled gray beard, trying to make sense of the priest’s words. “I don’t understand. The blade was well crafted, something far beyond what an old soldier like myself would carry but-”
“It didn’t resemble an unholy blade consecrated to the Lord of Three Crowns?” Morgrim finished. “Believe me, the Lirithane does not look like any weapon you would want to carry. Whoever ordered the theft wove powerful illusions about the blade, making it difficult to track.”
Aidan sat for a few minutes, weighing what the priest had said. He didn’t believe Morgrim-at least not fully. Oh, the young man sounded earnest, that was certain, and his eyes, dancing with the reflected light of the fire, looked as guileless and trusting as a doe’s. Unbidden, Aidan found himself thinking of Morgrim’s feather-light touch…
The fire hissed and popped as he brought himself back to the present. “All right, let’s assume for a moment that I did carry the blade of the high priestess of Cyric last night. How did I come to possess it, and who were the cutthroats who attacked me?” he asked. Despite the warmth of the fire, Aidan felt a queer chill in the pit of his stomach, as the events of the last day swirled around in his mind. He wasn’t sure he really wanted an answer to his question.
Morgrim hesitated before speaking, as if sensing his thoughts. “I do not know how you received the Lirithane- though the identity of your attackers is easy enough to impart; they were members of the Fire Knives.”
Aidan shook his head. “Impossible. The Purple Dragons and our allies destroyed the Fire Knives.” He had been a young lieutenant then, and the memories of that fierce struggle still pulled him screaming from his sleep.
“In Tilverton, perhaps” Morgrim replied, “but remnants of the cult survived your attack. They were lost without their little god, and it was a simple thing to take them in and bend them to our purpose. They were our dark hounds, and we sent them out to hunt across the face of Faerun.”
Aidan’s blood froze. “Then why did they attack me?”
The priest sighed and said, “The hounds have gone feral. They used their familiarity with our temple to steal the high priest’s blade. They aren’t smart enough to carry this off by themselves; someone put them up to it. I tracked them across Cormyr until they ended up here, where they delivered the blade to their unknown master. Apparently, this person felt the blade was too dangerous to keep in their possession and used you to ‘deliver’ it back to the Knives.”
Morgrim paused and Aidan sat still as the priest finished, “I need your help in finding their leader.”
Nothing made sense! Aidan had spent a lifetime battling the forces of chaos and darkness, struggling to carve out a safe haven in the world, and now, on the eve of his retirement, an agent of darkness called upon him for help. His choice should have been clear.
Then why, by Tymora’s Thrice-Damned Tresses, isn’t it? he thought.
“Look, if you won’t help me out of the goodness of your heart, do it for yourself.” Morgrim whispered as he crept closer to Aidan’s silent form. “Someone set you up-someone who didn’t care whether you lived or died. Don’t you want to find out who that was?”
Aidan held his breath. Gods it was hard to think with the strange young man so close. Still, the priest had a point:
Someone in Tilverton was trafficking with dangerous forces. Retired or not, he had a duty to find out the identity of that person. With a silent prayer, he made his decision.
“What do I have to do?” he asked.
The midmorning sun shone brightly as Aidan walked down the Street of the Sorceress, heading toward the marketplace. Tilverton’s streets were crowded at this time of day, and the city seemed to take on a life of its own. Horse-drawn wagons and carriages pushed valiantly against the steady press of people, carrying loads of flour, wool, and other items for the marketplace. The people, in turn, parted reluctantly for the transport, immersed in their own private conversations. Musicians dotted the street corners, playing wildly for small groups of onlookers, their music a rhythmic counterpoint to the constant hum of conversation.
Aidan felt comforted by the sights and sounds of the city. He had spent most of the last tenday since his attack peering and poking throughout Tilverton for any information regarding the mastermind behind the Lirithane’s disappearance. So far, the results were frustrating. Whereas before his rank in the Purple Dragons opened the tightest lips, he now found himself facing a wall of silence. He was just another citizen. There was little he could do to force information from the unwilling. Even so, he managed to get a few nibbles. Unfortunately, each one had led to a dead end.
To make matters worse, he had finally returned to his own house after spending the last six nights in the mausoleum that Morgrim called a room only to find a letter from Commander Haldan requesting his presence this very afternoon. It was easy to guess what the commander wanted. Even when they were both lieutenants, Haldan had resented any civilian interference in official Dragon business. Not only had Aidan not informed his friend about the fateful attack in the alleyway, but he had also begun an investigation without official sanction. By now, the commander had most likely discovered both those facts. Aidan didn’t look forward to this interview.
