The style of the script was old, the ink faded and blurred, but Bronwyn got the gist of it well enough. The fortress of Thornhold, and most of the mountain upon which it stood, did not belong to the Holy Order of the Knights of Sainular. It was the property of the Caradoon family.
'There is a copy of this writ of succession in the Herald's Holdfast,' Hronulf said. 'Upon my death, you must make provision for the fortress and see that it is used as it has been for these many centuries.' He looked keenly at her. 'Are you wed?'
'Not even close,' she said dryly.
'Chaste?'
Under any other circumstances, she would have answered that question with derisive laughter. Now she merely felt puzzlement, edged with the beginnings of anger. 'I don't see what that has to do with this discussion,' she said stiffly.
Hronulf apparently heard in this his answer, and not the one he'd been hoping for. An expression of grave disappointment crossed his face. He sighed, then his jaw firmed with apparent resolve. He rose and went to his writing table. Seating himself, he took up a quill. 'I will write you a letter of introduction,' he said, dipping the quill into an inkwell. 'Take it to Summit Hall and give it to Laharin Goldbeard of Tyr. He commands this place and will find a suitable match for you.'
Bronwyn's jaw dropped. She dug one hand into her hair and shook her head as if to clear it. 'I don't believe this.'
'The line of Samular must continue,' Hronulf said earnestly. Fle blew on the writing to dry it, then set the parchment aside. 'You are the last of my five children, so the responsibility falls to you. You seem well suited to it. You are young, comely, and in apparent health.'
This was more than Bronwyn could take. 'Next I suppose you'll be telling me that children are my duty and destiny.'
'And so they are.'
Bronwyn had a sudden, sharp feeling of empathy for a brood mare. She rose abruptly. 'I am tired, father. Are there guest quarters in this fortress that will not be too sullied by a woman's presence?'
He rose with her, and his visage softened somewhat as he studied her. 'You are overwrought. Forgive me. I gave you too much to think about too soon.'
'I'm adaptable,' she assured him, wondering even as she spoke if perhaps she had finally come up against the edges of her flexibility.
'We will talk more in the morning. There are secrets known only to the descendants of Samular that you must hear. You must understand your family responsibilities.'
This time, Bronwyn could not hold back a small, grim smile. Until this moment, she had always been fond of irony. To Hronulf of Tyr, family responsibility apparently meant the continuation of the bloodline of Samular. Yet in doing his duty, he had left his family vulnerable.
She was not even the slightest bit tempted to point this out to her father. So vast was the gulf between them that Hronulf was unlikely to ever see this matter as she did. If she married well and produced sons to follow Tyr, he would be content. Nothing else she could do, nothing else she was, could possibly matter. In any way that truly counted, she was as alone now as she had been before she'd entered Thornhold.
Bronwyn reminded herself that she had never really expected to have a family. She had merely sought to learn about her past. If she could think of this meeting with her father as a means to that end, then maybe the ache in her chest would subside.
So she took the scroll Hronulf handed her and the small leather book that he bid her read in order to learn more of the family's creed and purpose. Bronwyn still had a thousand questions, but the answers seemed finally within her grasp. The answers, that is, to all questions but one:
Why was the knowledge of her past, this fulfillment of her dreams, not nearly enough?
Elsewhere in Thornhold the dinner hour was ending and the Knights of Samular scattered, each to his preferred rest and ease. One aging paladin, once known throughout eastern Faerun as Randolar the Bear, made his way up a narrow stair to his chamber. He retrieved a book from his modest bedchamber, a fine tome brimming with exciting tales told with admirable brevity, and betook himself to an even smaller room-a tidy latrine set into the thick wall of the keep. There he ascended the throne of the common man and happily settled down to read.
So engrossed did he become in the tale that, at first, the muted curses seemed nothing but echoes of the vanquished villain's ire. It came to him, slowly, that the voices were real, and that they were coming from the midden shoot below him. After a puzzled moment, Randolar realized that someone was climbing up the interior of the keep wall, an invader determined enough to risk the sort of unpleasant reception he had just received. It also occurred to him that since this was not the only privy in the keep, there might be other, similarly determined invaders.
The old paladin leaped to his feet and dragged in air to fuel a shout of alarm. Before he could utter a sound, the privy's wooden seat flew up and slammed against the wall with furious force. Randolar spun just as the head and shoulders of a black-bearded man, grim-faced and covered with the leavings that coated the midden, emerged from the shoot.
Propping himself on one elbow, the invader lifted a small, loaded crossbow. His grimy finger jerked at the trigger. The bolt tore into Randolar's chest, and he slid slowly down the wall onto the cold, stone floor. His last thought was deep mortification that a knight of Tyr should die so, his last alarm unsounded and his breeches tangled about his ankles.
On a hilltop not far away, Dag Zoreth stood on the watch-tower of a conquered outpost, his eyes fixed on the fortress. All was in readiness. His minions bad done well. Even Sir Gareth had delivered above expectations. According to Dag's scouts, a young woman had entered the fortress several hours ago. His reunion with his lost family promised to be more complex and fulfilling than he'd dared to hope.
And it would happen soon. By now, his advance soldiers should have made their way up the unprotected midden chutes. They were handpicked men, among them some of the most skilled and silent assassins known to the Thentarim, and the best archers. It was their task to quietly slip into the fortress. Three assassins would work their way up to the winch room, a small upper-floor chamber where the machinery that lifted the portcullis was housed. The others would take out the men who walked the walls and watched from the high turrets, and work their way to the gate.
Dag was suddenly distracted by the sensation of cold fire that stabbed at his left side-painful, yet not entirely unpleasant. He slipped his hand into the leather bag that hung at his belt and removed from it the source of his discomfort, a small globe like the one he had given Sir Gareth.
The face in it was dusky gray, vaguely elven in appearance, and seamed with scars earned over long decades of service to evil. The haif-drow assassin gave a single, curt nod.
Dag smiled and slipped the globe back into his bag.
'They have secured the winch room and are ready to raise the portcullis,' he said to his captain, a bald, black-bearded man who was more than a head taller than flag and nearly twice his breadth. What Captain Yemid lacked in strategic innovation, he made up in sheer brute force and the corresponding ability to pass along orders and make them stick. 'Sound the charge,' Dag commanded.
Yemid thrust a ham-sized fist into the air. Instantly one of the men lifted a curved horn to his lips and winded the signal for attack. A score of heavy cavalry thundered toward the fortress, huge war-horses, barded with plate armor and bearing fully armored warriors. Behind them came the next wave, another twenty mounted soldiers who would chase down and slay any who managed to escape. Finally came the infantry, fifty men, well armed and well trained, fortified with the battle frenzy that came in the wake of flag Zoreth's Cyric-granted spells.
It was not a large force, but it would more than suffice. Thirteen men were already in the fortress, killers as silent and deadly as ferrets hunting aging roosters and nesting doves. Dag only hoped there would be enough killing for his men to sate their bboodlust; if not, some of them were likely to turn on each other, seizing the opportunities of battle confusion to settle some old insult or petty rivalry. It was not an uncommon occurrence among the Zhentarim.
