clans, his had not been blessed by many children. He loved kids, loved every one of the rowdy little scamps. But if they were not here, where were they?
As the dwarf thought about this, he also realized that he had not accounted for several adult members of the clan, including some of his own near kin. His Da rested in the cairn, beside the cantankerous, beloved dwarf woman who had borne him nine stout children. Most of these offspring, Ebenezer's brothers and sisters, also slept beneath the stone. Tarlamera was not among them.
He sat upright. Why hadn't he realized that earlier? Tarlamera was the sibling closest to him in age and temperament. They'd fought their way through a happy childhood, and hers was the face he always sought first in a crowd of his kin. Why hadn't he looked for her and noted that she was not to be found?
Ebenezer had heard tell of people who got through rough spots by blocking out important things, not thinking about them until they were armed and ready, so to speak. Maybe that was what he was doing. Funny, but until now he would have called that sort of thing soft-headed.
But the time for protective denial was over. Ebenezer began to sort through the grim facts, and a pattern became clear. Most of the clan's best fighters had been slain, as well as those who spent their days tending to the practical needs of the clan: hearth mothers, brewers, coopers, cobblers. All of the elderly dwarves were dead, and the few that had had the odd infirmity. The missing members were those who had special skills-skills that no one could master quite as well as could a dwarf Their best miners were gone, including Tarlamera, whose instincts for the stone were so keen Ebenezer suspected she could smell deposits of ore and gemstones from fifty paces. The best gem workers were missing, and the finest smiths. A few of the females of breeding age. The children.
In short, everyone who had value in some distant slave market.
Rage, cold and fierce and all-consuming, rose like bile in the dwarf's throat. There was yet another thing he'd conveniently blotted out: his own capture by a passe! of Zhents. Suddenly he realized the true and devastating nature of his fear.
Slavery.
Ebenezer hauled himself to his feet, grabbed some weapons, and left behind the graveyard that had been his home. He struck out for a secret tunnel-a steep, curving passage that led up to the stronghold some humans had built on the mountain above a few decades past.
Knights, they called themselves. They were a bunch of smug-faced meddlers who kept themselves busy tidying up the area of trolls and bugbears and so forth, reminding Ebenezer of dwarf grannies fussing about the clanhold, forever straightening up the furniture and dusting off the what-nots.
If there were answers to be found, Ebenezer was certain that the nest of those troll-hunting, minding-the- world's-business, pain-in-the-back-of-the-lap humans was a reasonable place to start looking.
Bronwyn followed her father down the tower stairs back into the bailey. The first signs of real animation crept into Hronulf's voice as he described the fortress to her, its history its defenses, and the good work that the paladins did for travelers who passed by. He stopped here and there to chat with the servants and exchanged bluff greetings with the other knights. To each knight, he introduced her pointedly and proudly as his lost daughter. Oddly enough, that did little to warm Bronwyn's heart or make her feel wanted. It was almost as if he felt a need to justify her presence here. But Bronwyn noticed the deep affection and respect that all the fortress inhabitants showed their commander. Those who knew Hronulf, clearly held him in highest regard. This reminded her of the knight who had sent her here.
'I met Sir Gareth Cormaeril in Waterdeep,' she said. 'He sends his regards.'
Hronulf's face lit up. 'You have seen him? And he knows who you are? This news must have brought him great joy!'
'I told him my name, but he did not seem to connect me with you in any way, not even when I told him I was seeking you out in hope that you might have information about my lost family' Bronwyn said. 'He commented that you had lost family, too, and would most likely be willing to give me whatever aid you could, but he did not put the pieces together.'
'Sir Gareth was a great knight and a good friend,' Hronulf stated. His eyes suddenly went bleak. 'It was he who found you, or so he thought-a child slain when goblins overran a southbound caravan. Perhaps his affection blinded him, then and now. He was afraid for me, so great was my grief. Although beholding your dead child is a terrible thing, not knowing what has become of her is much worse. Having settled my mind and his that you were dead, he was not looking for Bronwyn Caradoon when he beheld your face.'
'That's possible,' she admitted, though she was disturbed at the possibility that she might have been found, had not Sir Gareth been so quick to pronounce her dead. Something else occurred to her. 'Did Gareth know my mother?'
'Oh, yes. Gwenidale was a woman of good family, and her brother was a paladin, Gareth's comrade and mine. He fell before his twenty-third year, but he was a great knight. But it has been many years since any living man has gazed upon fair Gwenidale's face. Do not fault Gareth in this matter.' Hronulf smiled faintly. 'He and I are aged men. The eyes fail, and even the fondest memories do not always come to our command.'
As they talked, they continued their tour of the fortress. Hronulf led her through the chapel, and pointed to the stairs that led up on either side of the back wall. They climbed the stairs on the right and emerged on the walkway that encircled the wall. Her father's pride in his domain, his obvious concern for all those under his care, made one thing perfectly clear to Bronwyn. Thornhold was truly his home, not the village she could barely remember. This place, these men, had always been first with him.
That made her curious and angrier than she liked to admit. She decided to prod a bit. 'There are no women here,' she observed.
'A traveler, from time to time,' Hronulf said. 'I believe that there is a female hire-sword with the caravan currently under hospitality.'
'So the knights don't bring their families here.' That bothered her deeply, especially in light of her own history.
'Few knights have families,' the paladin said, then hesitated. 'It is a hard life, and full of danger. There are often matters of fealty-sworn service to god or king-that must be discharged. Some men who live to their thirtieth year and beyond marry. Most do not.'
'You did,' she pressed. 'You had a family and left us in a small forest village.' The words came out like a challenge.
Bronwyn wished she could have been more diplomatic, but her need was too great. She needed to hear some word of explanation, some reason for the horror that had destroyed her family and shaped her life.
Hronulf did not answer right away. He paused before the door of a long stone building that spanned the distance between the two towers, the roof rising up steeply to meet in the center in a soaring arch. Through the open door, Bronwyn could see the raised altar with the scales ofjustice above. Light filtered in through windows set high on the stone walls, falling in thin, golden slants on the knights who knelt or prostrated themselves in prayer.
'It was my duty to marry,' Hronulf said simply. 'The bloodline of Samular must be carried on. Which reminds me, there are family matters of which we must speak. Come.'
That was no answer at all. Hoping that he would offer better, Bronwyn followed him back up to the tower. He closed the door and bolted it. This struck Bronwyn as a strange precaution, given their secure surroundings. She was even more puzzled when he took an ancient sheet of parchment from a small, locked wooden chest. 'Can you read?' he asked.
'In several languages, both modern and ancient.'
The response seemed natural enough to her, but it seemed to displease her father. 'Such pride is not seemly.'
'Not pride,' she said with complete honesty. 'Necessity. I'm a merchant. And, I suppose, a scholar of sorts. I find lost artifacts, which means I have to study a wide variety of materials and speak to many sorts of people to find what I'm looking for.'
'A merchant.'
He spoke the words in a tone that could have served just as well if he'd said, 'a hobgoblin.' Bronwyn suddenly knew how a cat felt when its back went up. She swallowed the tart response that came quickly to her tongue and reached for the parchment.
