“I have met young Lord Thann on several occasions. He is exceedingly fond of gems and other fine things. Perhaps he merely purchases items from Bronwyn’s shop.”
Sir Gareth lifted his eyebrows. “Do you believe that?”
“No,” the First Lord sighed. “I will look into this matter and send word to you as soon as I can. Will that content you?”
“It does indeed. The word of Athar’s son is a bond that no steel can break,” Sir Gareth said heartily. He rose to leave, but hesitated. “There is one thing more. I have no wish to forestall any efforts your officials of law and order might wish to take, but may we also search for this woman ourselves and bring her to Tyr’s Hall of Justice to answer for herself? Will you trust me in this matter?”
It seemed to Algorind that Lord Piergeiron looked relieved to hear a question that could be answered simply. He rose and extended his hand in a pact. ‘Who could deny a brother paladin? And who could better dispense justice than Tyr?” he said heartily.
The two men, paladin and knight, clasped wrists in an adventurer’s salute. “Who indeed,” echoed Sir Gareth.
* * * * *
Bronwyn packed up Cara’s few belongings and prepared to deliver her to Blackstaff Tower. Cara appeared to take it in stride. It made Bronwyn proud to note how adaptable and resilient the child was.
What made this more remarkable was that the child had no true anchor other than her own inner strength. Cara would be fine, Bronwyn assured herself as she packed for the trip ahead, and that indeed seemed to be the case until they got to the base of the smooth, black wall that surrounded the archmage’s tower.
Bronwyn dismounted and went over to Ebenezer’s pony to lift Cara down. To her surprise, the child threw herself on the pack horse. She scrambled up onto the bundles and glared down at Bronwyn with a defiant, tear-streaked face. “I want to come with you!”
Bronwyn sighed. ‘We’ve been over this, Cara. You can’t. It will be very dangerous.”
“Take me with you,” Cara insisted.
“I’ll take you into the tower,” Bronwyn bargained. “And I’ll stay for some of Lady Laeral’s tea and biscuits. How’s that?”
The girl folded her arms and sniffed. “Not good enough.” Ebenezer elbowed Bronwyn. “Make a decent merchant, she would,” he said in a low, amused voice.
“You’re no help,” she muttered. She cast a look of appeal toward the smooth black stone on the tower, wondering if someone within could see her plight.
Her silent plea was quickly answered. Laeral emerged, walking through apparently solid stone and looking like a living waterfall. She was a tall woman, taller than most men, and slender as a birch tree. Silver hair, thick and abundant, had been left unbound to cascade in waves over her bared shoulders and fall past her knees. The mage’s silvery gown, cut low and cunningly fitted to both cling and swirl, was appropriate for an evening of dancing and revelry. Earrings like a shower of falling stars glittered at Laeral’s ears, and her necklace was an intricate web of silver filigree and still more crystal. The outfit was extravagant, absurd—and perfect.
Cara’s jaw dropped, and her eyes rounded in wonder. “You look like magic,” the child pronounced. “And lots of it.”
The mage’s eyes lit with warmth and humor. “And so shall you, Cara. We will have some breakfast, and then we will begin. Would you like that?”
The child was utterly and obviously enchanted. Even so, her eyes slid to Bronwyn’s face, and she bit her lip in indecision. “Yes. . . “ she said hesitantly.
“And I got a new flitterkitten,” Laeral continued, “just this very morning. She is a very pretty little white kitten with snowy white wings, but she is just learning to fly and she truly needs someone to take care of her.”
This was just the extra bit of inducement that Cara needed. She promptly put out her arms for help. Bronwyn lifted her down from the pack horse, giving Laeral a grateful look over Cara’s brown head.
“We will do just fine here, you and I,” Laeral said as she took the girl’s hand. Noticing how Cara gaped at her glittering rings, she selected a ring that flashed with fire and ice and slid it onto the child’s small hand. Instantly the ring sized itself to fit the tiny finger
Bronwyn nodded in approval, understanding how this would appear to Cara. The child had a ring from her father and knew it to be important; she would view another such gift as a very significant thing. Laeral was apparently as wise and insightful as she was beautiful.
Wrapped in a nearly tangible delight of magic and each other, the two turned and disappeared into the seemingly solid black wall. Neither of them looked back.
Bronwyn sighed again and wiped the back of her hand across her eyes. She swung herself up onto her horse and started out for the Northgate.
They rode in silence for several minutes. Ebenezer glanced over at her. “You look like you got something on your mind.”
She managed a faint smile. “I was just now wishing,” she said softly, “that I had thought to give Cara a ring.”
* * * * *
Beneath the streets of Waterdeep lay a maze of tunnels, and beneath that another and then yet another, layer upon layer of secrets carved deep into mountain stone. Two men strode through one such tunnel, a simple passage that ran between Blackstaff Tower and Piergeiron’s Palace, a tunnel accessible only to the men who ruled in those places. It was by its very nature a lonely place. The only sounds were the drips of water falling from the rounded ceiling, the clicking of their boots upon the stone floor, and the occasional squeaking of rats—creatures that went wherever they pleased, in casual defiance of lordly might.
They walked in silence, their thoughts on the meeting ahead. Khelben Arunsun’s stern face was more solemn than usual, creased with something approaching dread. His nephew thought he understood, at least in part. Such power as the archmage wielded put him on a summit few could hope to climb. But for his lady, Khelben was very much alone, and he carried burdens more diverse and wearisome than most mortals could bear to contemplate. Khelben had lived long and outlived many; lovers, friends, comrades, even his own children. That Danilo could not begin to comprehend—how could any man bear the burden of life, when his own children had long ago turned to dust? He suspected that the archmage was soon to suffer yet another loss, the loss of one of the best and oldest friends remaining to him.
The passage ended at a tightly spiraling stairway. Danilo stepped aside so that Khelben could ascend the stairs first. At the top of the spiral, the archmage tapped at a stout wooden door, a door that, on the other side, was simply not there at all. At Piergeiron’s summons, he opened the door and the two men stepped through a tapestry, into an oak-paneled sitting room.
Piergeiron greeted them warmly, his famed charm very much in evidence. He poured wine from a jeweled decanter, had a servant bring a tray of fruit and cheeses. He inquired after the archmage’s household and the bard’s work, chatted about songs he had heard and people they all knew. Danilo had been well versed in the art of meaningless words, and for some time they chatted pleasantly about small and inconsequential matters.
Through it all, Khelben watched his old friend with an expression that suggested he was seeing him anew, by a different light. Danilo observed this with growing unease. He had seen Piergeiron and Khelben together several times, and though their friendship was as unbalanced as that which sometimes occurred between a barn cat and a draft horse, it was of long standing. There was usually an easy comfort between them that today was utterly missing. Nothing the First Lord did or said could be faulted in the slightest, but Danilo sensed the change in the man, as surely as a forest elf could scent the coming of snow in the autumn wind.
He wondered how many more moments would pass before Khelben broke the awkward pattern. The archmage was not by nature a patient man, nor inclined to calmly endure such treatment at the hand of an old friend. Better a sharp insult, a sudden blow, than this polite and mannered scrambling for distance.
“A young woman reputed to be a Harper agent has run afoul of a paladin brotherhood,” the archmage said bluntly. “I assumed you summoned me here to discuss the matter. If so, speak plainly, and I will do the same.”
“Very well, then.” Piergeiron set his wine goblet down. Far from insulted, he looked relieved to be back on familiar ground. With admirable directness, the First Lord set his concerns out, based on Sir Gareth’s report.
“Let me put your mind at rest,” the archmage said at once. “Bronwyn is indeed a Harper agent. She does have an artifact of Tyr in her possession, that much is true, but she is on her way, even as we speak, to Summit Hall, a monastery of Tyr.”
Piergeiron’s expression eased. Danilo cast a furtive look at the archmage, wondering if he felt even a twinge of guilt for misleading his old friend. Khelben had not actually stated that Bronwyn was returning the ring, but clearly Piergeiron thought that this was the case. It did not seem that Khelben intended to disabuse him of that notion.
“I am relieved to hear this, my friend, but I must admit to some lingering doubt about Bronwyn’s intentions. According to Sir Gareth, she has been asking around for a priest of Cyric. Her brother, no less.”
Khelben did not so much as blink. “She has reason to seek him out. The Harpers and the Zhentarim have long been foes.”
Another truth that cloaked a lie, Danilo mused. Was this, then, what Harpers must become? As time went on would he, like Khelben, so manipulate his oldest friends and twist the truth to serve the Balance? Later, he would have to give this matter serious consideration, but this was not the time. He schooled his face to reveal nothing of his troubled thoughts.
Khelben leaned forward. “To speak truly, Piergeiron, I would be wary of Sir Gareth’s motives in this matter.”
The First Lord looked offended. “He is a paladin of Tyr!”
“He is of the Order of the Knights of Samular,” Khelben specified. “I do not argue that the paladins are anything but good and holy men, but I am wary of the orders. One man’s righteous conviction is a fine thing, but imagine the evil that could be done by so many, of such power, in the single-minded pursuit of a goal they believe to be good. I would hate to see Bronwyn swept up in such a rushing tide.”
Piergeiron shook his head in astonishment. “I do not believe what I am hearing.”
“At least consider my words. I have long looked askance at the military orders, especially the followers of Samular. Recently, I have come to suspect that there might be good and sufficient reason for this.”
The First Lord rose, his face stern and his eyes shuttered. “When, and if, you find evidence to support this unease, please tell me at once. You will forgive me if I do not wish to speak of this again until that time.”
Khelben rose in response to the dismissal. If he felt the chill of his friend’s tone, it did not show in his eyes. “Believe me, my friend, when I tell you that I hope I am wrong on this matter.”
They moved swiftly through the polite gestures and words of leave-taking, and the Harpers left the palace. As they made their way back through the tunnel, Khelben’s silence was heavy, troubled. It occurred to Danilo for the first time that the archmage might finally have entered a battle that he could not hope to win. How could any man go against paladins without appearing to side with evil? And what man alive—especially a man who had lived Khelben’s long years and wielded his vast power—did not have in his past some secrets that would support this supposed charge of wrongdoing? Danilo did not know of any particulars, but Khelben’s reaction when they discussed the history of the Knights of Samular led him to believe that at least a few of the archmage’s secrets might be bound up with this order.