Thornhold

'It would appear that you have a more intriguing tale to tell,' Dag commented, raising a finger and tracing a line down his own cheek.

The older priest merely shrugged. 'You recently traveled to Jundar's Hill and rode alone into the foothills along the Dessarin. I am curious, my son, what prompted you to take such chances just to visit the site of your home village?'

So that was it. Word had reached Malchior faster than Dag had expected. 'I, too, am curious,' he said. 'What you told me of my past intrigued me, but there are still many holes in my story. I sought to fill some of them.'

'And did you?'

'One or two.' Dag turned a stony gaze upon the older priest. 'You told me that the raid was the work of an ambitious rival paladin. But the men who attacked were Zhentarim soldiers. Looking back from where I stand, I can see that plainly.'

This clearly took Malchior aback. 'How is this possible? You were a child.'

'I know,' Dag said simply. 'The matter is between me and my god.'

There was little Malchior would say to counter this pronouncement. For several moments they walked together in silence. 'This villa, your new responsibilities,' he began, 'these things you have earned. I have something more for you. A gift.' He paused to add weight to the coming words. 'You are not the last of Samular's bloodline. Your sister also survived that raid and is alive and well.'

Dag froze, stunned by this revelation. It did not occur to him to challenge Malchior's words; indeed, as the realization sank home, he wondered why he should be so surprised. He remembered the Cyric-given vision, the bold and curious little girl diving headlong from the small window to investigate the coming raid. His sister Bronwyn, dimly remembered as the bane of his young existence. Of course. He had been spared-why not the girl?

A sister. He had a sister. Dag was not certain how he felt about this. Vaguely he remembered his father's deep, disapproving voice lamenting the little girl's bold ways-and wondering why her older brother was not half so intrepid.

'How is she? Where is she?'

'In Waterdeep,' Malchior answered. He grimaced and touched the livid cut on his face. 'And trust me, she does well enough. I met and spoke with her earlier this very night.'

So that was Bronwyn's work. The years had passed, but still she had the courage to act when Dag held back. This did not please him, but the discomfited expression on Malchior's wounded face most assuredly did.

'For a paladin's daughter, she is quick with a knife,' Dag commented with dark amusement. 'You are not usually so incautious as to overlook a hidden weapon.'

'A naked woman,' Malchior grumbled, 'with a stiletto hidden in her halt Men must be cautious in these treacherous times.'

This time Dag laughed aloud. 'Oh, that is priceless! Wouldn't the great Hronulf be proud?'

The older priest shrugged. 'She is an interesting woman, a finder of lost antiquities who has made it her life's work to collect pieces of the past. Ironically, she has not been able to recover her own history. Yet she is clearly desperate to do so. She was willing to trade a gemstone artifact for information. You could exploit this. And you should.' Again he grimaced. 'I ran into some… interference. Had I not prepared for that possibility and importuned Cyric aforetime for spells to take me to this place, the night would have ended more disastrously than it did. Clearly, we are not the only ones in possession of this knowledge. Your sister is watched, protected. If you do not stake claim to this woman and whatever power she wields, someone else will.'

'Yes,' Dag murmured. 'What do you suggest?'

Malchior's eyebrows rose. It had been some years since his former student had asked for advice. 'I have given into your hands the man who betrayed your father, and you. Use him. Let him lure your sister to a place where you can, shall we say, exert a degree of brotherly influence.'

The young priest nodded. 'Well said. And what, if I may be so bold, do you hope to gain from any of this?'

'Gain? We have known each other for many years. You have been like a son,' Malchior began. When Dag began to chuckle, the priest gave up the attempt and shrugged. 'There is power in your family. I don't understand its precise nature. That is for you to discover. But I trust that you will do so and share your discovery with me.'

'Really?' Dag imbued the single word with a great deal of skepticism. Malchior was not a man to be trusted, and he assumed that all other men dealt as he did.

'Let us say that there is power enough for both. I desire your success with all my heart, for it is a stepping- stone to my own.'

That, Dag could believe and understand. 'Very well. When Bronwyn is under my influence, when I understand the scope of my heritage, then you and I will speak again.'

'I am satisfied to wait.' Suddenly the priest's jovial expression disappeared, and his eyes were as flat and hungry as a troll's. 'You understand, of course, the price of failure.'

'Of course,' Dag said smoothly. 'Have I not inflicted it often enough? Ask any failed man under my command the price of his failure-but first, prepare to summon his spirit.'

Malchior blinked, then began to laugh. 'Well enough. A drink then, to seal our agreement.' He linked his arm with Dag's, and together they strolled back toward the darkness of the villa.

'Forgive the intrusion,' Khelben Arunsun said in a deep, faintly accented voice, 'but circumstances demanded that we meet and speak. Please, sit down.'

Still too dazed for thought, Bronwyn sank down on the nearest available seat-the old sea chest that held her linens. The archmage took the chamber's only chair. Staff in hand, he looked uncomfortably like a magistrate about to pass judgment on some unknown crime.

'It has come to my attention that you have accepted a commission from a priest of Cyric, a man known as Malchior.'

How had he learned of this so soon? Bronwyn shook off this second surprise and marshaled her wits. 'That is so, Lord Arunsun.'

'What precisely was your thinking in this matter? Need I remind you that conspiring with the Zhentarim is hardly an approved Harper activity?'

'True enough, my lord. But it is part of my job. I was recruited by the Harpers for my contacts. A wide range of customers seek my services.'

'And simple prudence dictates that you set limits. Correct me if I err, but was it not your intention to deliver gemstones containing significant magical power to Malchior of Cyric?'

'Yes, but-'

'What do you know of the man? What is the nature of your dealings with him?'

Before Bronwyn could form a defense, a tap at her open lintel distracted both her and her visitor. A familiar, fair-haired man lounged against the door post. He held up one hand to display a length of golden beads and silver filigree.

Bronwyn's eyes widened at the sight of the amber necklace. For a moment, she forgot the daunting presence of the archmage. 'Damn it, Dan, what are you doing with that?'

'I should like to know that, myself,' Khelben intoned in a grim voice. He rose and faced down the younger man. 'Why did you bring the necklace here?'

'Why wouldn't I? It belongs to Bronwyn,' Danilo said.

'No, it doesn't,' she gritted out. 'I received payment. The bargain was made.'

'Was it?' Her friend's usually merry face showed deep concern. He walked into the room and sat beside her on the sea chest. 'From what I hear, there was a slight downturn in the course of bartering. Something about an attempted kidnapping and a leap from a fourth floor window? Why are you so angry about a little assistance, Bronwyn? They might have killed you.'

This argument did nothing to lessen Bronwyn's ire. 'Obviously, they did not succeed. I was away before your… friends made an appearance.' She gave him an impatient little shove. 'Don't you realize what you have done?'