His brother lay still, horribly still, in a silent patch of blood-soaked ground. None of the raiders paid Byorn any heed now that he was no longer putting up a fight. They’d left the boy at once and turned their attention to ransacking the few remaining buildings. Dag understood: they were searching for the descendants of Samular. That was the only treasure this tiny, hidden village had to offer. He had heard the men in his own house, berating the soldier who had killed two valuable infant girls with a stroke meant only for their mother. Byorn’s death must also have been a mistake. The men had come for children, and to Dag’s adoring eyes, Byorn was already a man grown. With a sword in his hand and a battle-prayer to Tyr on his lips, Byorn must have fooled the raiders, as well.
Dag took his brother’s limp hand in his. He tugged at the family ring, all the while fearing that Byorn’s fist would clench to protect and keep, even in death, what was rightfully his. But valiant Byorn was truly gone, leaving the battle in the hands of his younger brother—a boy of nimble mind, to be sure, but cursed with a body too thin and frail to ever bear the burden and glory of Tyr’s service.
But if a quick mind was all he had, he would use it as well as any warrior his weapon. A simple resolve, perhaps, but it struck Dag with the weight and force of prophecy. For just an instant, the forgotten years rose up before him. Dag understood what he had only sensed the first time he’d lived through the raid: this moment’s insight would shape and define his life. Then, suddenly, the years receded, the adult was gone. But resolve calmed the child, focused him.
Again Dag tugged at the ring. Finally it came free from Byorn’s finger. Dag’s first thought was to bolt into the woods with it, but he knew instinctively that such sudden and obvious movement would draw attention to him. He could not outrun the men and their horses. He dared not keep the ring with him, for he would surely be captured sooner or later. What, then, was he to do with it?
The answer came to him in the form of a single, crimson leaf. It floated down, drifting as gently as a newly freed soul, and came to rest on Byorn’s torn jerkin. Dag swallowed hard at the sight of the terrible wound, and he jerked his gaze upward, in the direction from which the leaf had come.
There was a knot in the tree. A small one, but sufficient to his purpose. Dag slowly rose to his feet, hardly daring to breathe.
“There’s another one! And he’s got the look of the paladin about him, too!”
It took Dag a moment to realize that the man was talking about him. Once, long ago—just yesterday, just this morning, less than an hour ago!—he would have been thrilled to his soul by any comparison to his famous father. Now all the raider’s words inspired was a terrible, burning rage.
His mother and two of his little sisters were dead. Byorn was dead, and Dag had been left alone to finish a task that should never have fallen to any of them. His father should have been here. But he wasn’t. He wasn’t. What good could there be in any man if he was never there, not even when his own children were in grave danger?
Dag heard the crescendo of running feet behind him. Inspiration came like a jagged lightning flash, and he acted on it at once. He flung himself at the tree and thrust the ring into the knot hole. He did not move away, but clung to the tree as if it were his mother. Terrified sobs shook through him, though his eyes were dry and his fear now completely overshadowed by cunning.
Let the men think him a foolish child, mindless with grief and terror. Their opinion would not alter his fate. They would take him away, but at least the ring would be safe.
The ring.
Dag Zoreth slammed back into the present, as suddenly as if he had been jolted awake from a nightmare involving a long, terrifying fail.
Every muscle in his body screamed with pain, but he hardly noticed the physical agony over the fresh torture of remembered grief. Several dazed moments passed before he realized that his hands were bleeding, his fine clothes muddy and torn. He must have moved through the village in concert with the Cyric-given dream, tearing at the gods-only-knew-what in his remembered attempt to dislodge the window shutter, crawling through the wild tangle that had once been a garden in a desperate struggle to reach his long-dead brother.
“I moved through the dream,” Dag murmured, suddenly understanding the practical implication of this. He raised his eyes, fully expecting to see a spring canopy of gold-green oak leaves overhead.
There was no oak tree, but the silvery leaves of a pair of aspens fluttered nervously in the quickening breeze.
A quickening breeze. Dag took a long breath and considered the subtle, acrid scent borne on the wind. Yes, it would rain soon, one of the quick, violent thunderstorms that he had so loved as a child. Even then, Dag had reveled in the power and drama of those storms, shrugging off any thought of the destruction that they all too often left behind.
A thunderstorm! Inspiration struck again, and Dag began to tear at the vines and brambles before him. In moments, he had uncovered a blasted, blackened stump. Shards of an ancient tree lay nearby, and weirdly shaped mushrooms grew from the black powder of rotted limbs. It was the very oak tree Dag sought, struck by lighting many years ago and burned nearly to the ground.
The ring was not easy to find amid the ruins of the tree. As Dag searched, the gathering storm swallowed the sun and deepened the shadows that shrouded the clearing.
Dag’s horse whinnied nervously. The priest ignored these warnings. Rain began to pelt down as his searching hands raked through the debris, and soon the forest around him shuddered with the force and fury of the storm. Another man might not have found the ring at all, but it seemed to call out to Dag, urging him on.
He reached for a clump of mud and crushed it with his fingers. He felt something hard, and caught a glimpse of gold. Eagerly he reached for the small wineskin attached to his belt and poured the contents over the encrusted band— barely noticing the sting when the wine met his battered skin. He scrubbed the band clean on his ruined tunic and rose to his feet, his family treasure tightly clutched in one triumphant, bleeding fist.
Dag examined the ring by the light of another livid flash. Arcane marks scored the inside of the band. He had seen the marks once as a child and had assumed they were only a design. Now he could read the cryptic runes: When three unite in power and purpose, evil trembles.
Three, Dag mused. He knew of only two rings. As the pattern took shape in his mind, he began to understand why Malchior, his mentor, was suddenly so interested in Dag’s family history. It seemed likely to Dag that his childhood memories of the rings’ importance were based on more than legend. If Malchior was nosing about, there was real power to be had. Luckily the old priest knew nothing about the ring. Or perhaps he did; few high-ranking members of the Thentarim were known for altruism. Surely Malchior did not go through the trouble of seeking out Dag’s lost past, and the location of his birth village, just to put his former acolyte’s mind at ease. Well, be that as it may, Malchior would not find him a docile tool, nor would power of any sort leave Dag’s hands without a bloody struggle.
Dag started to slip his family ring onto his index finger, as Byorn had once worn it.
Pain, quick and bright and fierce, lanced through him. Astonished, Dag jerked off the ring. He dashed his rainsoaked hair from his eyes and held the ring out at arm’s length, gazing at it with a mixture of puzzlement and reproach. He was a descendant of Samular—how could the ring turn on him?
The answer came swiftly, borne on a wave of fierce selfanger. He should have seen this coming. He should have known this would happen. The ring had probably been blessed, consecrated to some holy purpose in which he, Dag Zoreth, could have no part. Samular had been a paladin of Tyr; Dag Zoreth was a strifeleader, a priest of Cyric.
On impulse, Dag took the medallion from around his neck, a silver starburst surrounding a tiny, carefully sculpted skull. He undid the clasp with fingers made slippery by mud and rain and his own blood, and then he slipped the ring onto the chain. He did up the clasp and put the medallion back in its proper place over his heart. The ring was hidden securely behind the symbol of Cyric.
Let Tyr—if indeed the god of justice condescended to observe someone such as Dag Zoreth—make of this what he willed.
Dag whistled for his horse and stiffly hauled himself up into the saddle. The return trip would have to be swift, for he could not wear the ring for much longer. It burned him now, even separated from his body by layers of purple and black garments and a light vest of fine elven mail. But there was another who would wear the ring for him, someone as innocent as he himself had been on that long-ago day, when an oak tree had wept crimson leaves over Byorn, the last worthy son of Tyr’s paladin.
Worthy or not, Dag fully intended to use the ring. After all, he was of Samular’s bloodline. He would reclaim his heritage—in his own way, and for his own purposes.
Two
There were other fortresses in the city of Waterdeep that were larger and more impressive, but Blackstaff Tower was without doubt the most secure and unusual fastness in the city.
Danilo Thann was a frequent visitor to the tower, and had been since Khelben Arunsun took him under his stern tutelage some twenty years earlier. Of late, it seemed to Danilo that the archmage’s summons were increasing in frequency, and that the demands he made upon his “nephew” and former student were growing by the day.
Today he walked openly through the invisible doors that allowed passage through the black stone of the courtyard wall, and again into the tower. This much was expected; he then sauntered in through the wooden door of the archmage’s study, not bothering to open the portal and in casual defiance of any wards that might have been placed upon it.
This was a typically arrogant gesture, one that no one else in the city would dare to attempt. Danilo hoped that Khelben perceived these acts as statements of his intention to remain independent of the archmage’s plans for him, but he suspected that this very insouciance was in no small measure the reason for his frequent presence in Blackstaff Tower.
He was late, of course, and he found the archmage in an unusually foul state of mind. Khelben “Blackstaff” Arunsun, the archmage of Waterdeep, did not often pace. Such was his power and his influence that matters usually went as he willed them to go. But at the moment, he roamed the floor of his study like one caged and extremely frustrated panther. Under different circumstances this might have afforded Danilo a bit of wry amusement, but the report he had sent to his mentor was disturbing enough to ruffle his own composure.
Khelben stopped pacing to glower at the man who was his nephew in name only. There was little similarity between them, other than the fact that they were both tall men, and that either of them would kill without hesitation to protect the other. The archmage was solid, dark, and of serious mien. He was clad in somber black garments, whereas Dan was dressed in rich shades of green and gold, bejeweled as if for a midwinter revel, and carrying a small elven harp. He was, much to the archmage’s dismay, committed to a bard’s life. It was a constant source of conflict between them—a conflict that supported Danilo’s suspicion that the archmage still hoped his nephew might be his successor as keeper of Blackstaff Tower. Danilo supposed that Khelben’s reasoning was sound enough. If he were forced to tell the whole truth—an event that, fortunately, did not often occur—Danilo would have to admit that he was more skilled with a spell than with harp or lute.
He set the harp on a small table and made a quick, complex gesture with his hands. Immediately the harp began to play of its own accord, a lilting elven air of which Danilo was particularly fond.
This brought a scowl to the archmage’s face. “How many musical toys does one man need?” he grumbled. “You’ve been spending too much time at that thrice-bedamned bard school, neglecting your duties!”
The young bard shrugged, unconcerned by the familiar reprimand. Never mind, he thought wryly, that evidence of the archmage’s particular artistic outlet stood in every corner of the room. Khelben painted; frequently, passionately, and with no discernible talent. Oddly skewed landscapes, portraits, and seascapes hung on the walls or stood on easels. Half-finished canvases leaned in rows against the far wall. The scent of paint and linseed oil mingled with the more pungent odor of spell components, which wafted in from the adjoining storage chamber.
Danilo walked over to the sideboard that held his favorite painting—an almost-skilled rendition of a beautiful, raven-haired half-elf—and poured himself a glass of wine from the decanter of elven wine he’d given Khelben as a gift.
“New Olamn is my duty,” he reminded the archmage. “We have had this conversation before. The training and support of Harper bards is an important task. Especially in these days, when the Harpers so badly lack focus and direction. And by the way, you have some paint on your left hand.”
“Hmmph.” The archmage glanced down at his hand and glowered at the green smear, which promptly disappeared. He snatched up the small scroll that lay near the magical harp and tossed it to his nephew.
Danilo deftly caught it, then draped himself over Khelben’s favorite chair. The archmage also sat, in a chair with carved legs that ended in griffin’s claws gripping balls of amber. In direct reflection of Khelben’s mood, the wooden claws drummed like impatient fingers.
“How many magical toys does one man need?” Danilo echoed wryly, and then turned his attention to the information on the scroll.
A few moments passed as he read and translated the coded message. His visage hardened. “Malchior is a strife-leader, commander of the war-priests in the Zhentish keep known as Darkhold,” he para~ihrased grimly. “Damn! Bronwyn has done business with suspect characters before, but this is beyond the pale.”
“Malchior cannot have that necklace,” Khelben said firmly. “You must stop the sale and bring the stones to me.”
The bard’s eyebrows rose, and his gaze slid over the severely-clad archmage. Khelben’s only ornaments were the silver threads in his black hair, and the distinctive streak of white in the middle of his neatly trimmed beard. “Since when did you develop a passion for fine antique jewelry?” Danilo asked in a dry tone.
“Think, boy! Even in its humblest form, amber is more than a pretty stone—it is a natural conduit for the Weave. This amber came from Anauroch, from trees that died suddenly and violently. Imagine the power required to transform the ancient Myconid Forest into desert wasteland. If even a trace of that magic lingers in the amber, in any form that can be tapped and focused, that necklace has enormous magical potential. It can also gather and transfer magical energy—” Khelben broke off, looking faintly startled, as if, Dan noted, he was suddenly considering that thought in a new light. The archmage rose and resumed his pacing. “Apparently we shall have to keep a closer watch on Malchior and his ambitions.”