The archmage sniffed. “Do you want an honest answer?” A wry smile lifted the corner of Danilo’s lips. “I suppose not.”
“I’ve noticed,” Khelben said in a voice heavy with weariness, “that people seldom do.”
Fourteen
The ride to Summit Hall passed more swiftly than Bronwyn had anticipated. Ebenezer’s blue pony, for all his disagreeable nature, had a tireless stride and a stubborn streak as wide as the dwarf’s backside. Blue Devil, as Ebenezer aptly named the beast, would not concede the pace to Bronwyn’s swifter mare, and he trotted along as if challenging the horse to match him.
Shopscat came along with them, sometimes perched on the pack horse, sometimes taking wing and flying in wide circles overhead. “Why the raven?” Ebenezer wanted to know. “You’re looking to scare off shoplifters out here?”
He gestured to the wide expanse of wilderness about them. This was their second day of hard travel. They had forded the Dessarin River early that morning and were now following the Dessarin Road north. The day before, the path had followed several small villages and outlying farms, and riders and caravans waved a friendly salute as they passed. Today they had seen only two other bands of travelers, and both of those early that morning. But for the path itself, this place had little sign of habitation. The trees over much of the road were dense and tall enough to meet overhead. The summer shade would be pleasant, but Bronwyn was just as glad that the trees were still lightly clad with buds and leaflets of golden green. When fully leafed, the trees would provide ample cover for bandits and predators.
“Why the raven?” she echoed. “Sometimes he carries messages back to Alice. Why the pack horse?”
Ebenezer shrugged. “Habit. Never know when you’ll find something worth hauling to market.”
She chuckled. “Now you’re sounding like a treasure hunter.”
“Been known to do it. There’s worse ways of earning your keep. Harpering being one of them, I’m guessing.”
She slid a speculative look at the dwarf. His studiously casual tone proclaimed a certain interest. Dwarves, as a rule, liked to keep to themselves and avoided meddling like they avoided water, but Ebenezer was a curious sort with interests that ranged far beyond those of his kin.
“It’s not really the way I earn my keep, although I suppose some people do. Being a Harper is one way to be a part of something, rather than one person alone.”
“Sort of like a clan,” he reasoned.
“I don’t know much about the ties of fanuly, but I suppose you could say that. Look up ahead,” she interrupted, pointing.
For about an hour now, the trees had been thinning out and getting smaller. To the north of them, the scene opened up, changing from forest to wild, rolling hills. In the distance, the path twisted up the side of a particularly steep knoll.
“Caves hereabouts,” the dwarf proclaimed, eyeing the rocky hills to the north. “Prime goblinkin country. Orcs, mostly likely. Best to look for a defensible camp before nightfall.”
They rode until twilight and set up camp on a hill not far from Summit Hall. Ebenezer found a small cave, one with a small opening so hidden that Bronwyn couldn’t see it until he pulled aside the brush to show her.
“Wait a mite,” he said, and then disappeared into the opening. He emerged in moments, briskly dusting off his hands. “Good cave. No orc sign, and the ceiling’s too low for orcs to stand and fight. Even has a small escape tunnel. Tight fit for me, but I’ll keep the stew down to two helpings tonight.”
The hopeful tone in his voice brought a grin to Bronwyn’s face. “Isn’t it your turn to cook?”
“How about I catch the rabbits?”
“Fair enough.” Bronwyn turned toward the packhorse to unload their gear. There, perched on the packs and grinning like a cream-sated tabby, was Cara.
Bronwyn fell back and yelped in surprise. “How did you get here?” she demanded.
But she knew even as she spoke. Suddenly Cara’s behavior at the wail of Blackstaff Tower made perfect sense. Her reluctance to part was a ploy—a way for her to plant her gem stone in the horse’s packs. Bronwyn wasn’t sure whether to be amused, touched, or exasperated. She pressed her fingers to her temples as if by so doing she could still her pounding pulse.
“Well, now. This is a fine how’d-you-do,” Ebenezer said, folding his arms and pretending to scowl. “Can’t hardly march into that nest of paladins with the kid, seeing as how the ones in Waterdeep are so all-fired-up to keep her.”
“True.” Bronwyn went over to Cara and lifted her down. “You should go right back.”
“Let me stay tonight,” the child wheedled. “I’ve never slept under the stars.”
Bronwyn had, so many times that she no longer gave it much thought, but it was a lovely notion when said with such wistful longing. She looked to Ebenezer. “Will you stay with her while I go in and talk to the knights?”
“And miss jaw-boning with that crowd? Glad to do it. Let’s you and me set up some traps and snares around camp,” he said to Cara.
Cara, it seemed, was an old hand at snares. It had been one of her tasks to tend the small rabbit traps her foster parents kept around the garden. Once she learned to adjust for size, she was tying and weighting snares as nimbly as the dwarf. “Might be you know how to cook, too?” he wanted to know.
“No, but I can make a fire. Watch.” The child turned her brown eyes onto the pile of kindling Bronwyn had gathered in a stone circle. Wisps of smoke began to rise from the sticks, and then the first bright tongues of flame.
“There!” she said triumphantly, turning to an open-mouthed Bronwyn for praise. “Laeral showed me that. It’s called a cantrip.”
‘That’s very good,” Bronwyn managed. She was no expert in magic, but it seemed remarkable to her that anyone, particularly a child, could learn a spell so quickly. For the first time, she wondered about Cara’s mother. What elf woman had borne her and bequeathed her daughter such incredible talent? And where was she now?
Since Cara had never mentioned her mother, Bronwyn thought better than to ask. She threw some dried meat and roots into the travel pot, and by the time the first stars winked into being, the three of them were spooning up stew and listening to the piping calls of spring peepers from a nearby marsh.
* * * * *
The complex was impressive—more like an enclosed town than a simple holdfast—surrounded by a thick wall perhaps twenty feet high, fashioned of the sand-colored stone that abounded in the hills. Watchtowers rose from the corners, and a large keep stood at the summit of the hill. To the north, outside of the complex itself, was an old, weathered tower.
Bronwyn rode to the gate and was cordially, if distantly, received by the followers of Tyr. An elderly knight showed her to a guest chamber in one of the smaller buildings that clustered around a large, open arena of hard-packed dirt. The room was sparsely furnished, and she wondered if she would rate better quarters if the paladins knew of her heritage. But at the moment, the wisest course seemed to be to keep her identity private. She’d left her ring hidden back at the camp rather than risk alerting the paladins and losing the ring in the process.
“Good thinking,” Ebenezer had approved. “Not a good thing, to be putting too much trust in humans.”
It had been on the tip of Bronwyn’s tongue to ask the dwarf what exactly he thought she was. But in recent weeks, she herself had not had many experiences with humankind that she could claim as proof against his cynical assessment.
A bell rang from one of the keep towers. Bronwyn heard a flurry of activity and glanced out her window. Several dozen young men were gathering in the large, open field that formed the heart of the monastery. They stripped to the waist and formed pairs, then fell to practicing with swords, staves, and a wide variety of smaller weapons. All of them fought well—impressively so. There was not a single man whom Bronwyn felt she could take in a fair fight. On the other hand, she got the impression that any one of them might be susceptible to some creatively dirty tactics.
Presently, one of the young paladins directed her to Master Laharin Goldbeard. She made her way up to his austere study and politely hailed him.
The man looked up, and his eyes widened. “Gwenidale,” he breathed.
It was not a common name, and Bronwyn had heard it only once in twenty years—when Hronulf spoke of her mother.
Bronwyn had not intended to reveal her identity, but she quickly adapted her course. “Not Gwenidale, but her daughter,” she said. “My name is Bronwyn.”
The knight recovered his composure and came toward her, both hands outstretched. He took her hands and spread them wide, as a family friend might do to a child whose growth he wished to fondly measure. “It is you, beyond doubt. Little Bronwyn! When last I saw you, you were no more than three. By the Hammer of Tyr, child, you have become the very image of your mother.”
She found herself liking Laharin and thought she would have even if he had not spoken of her mother. The man seemed to possess more warmth and kindness than any of the other paladins she had met—her father included.
“Come, sit down,” he urged. “You must tell me everything. How is it that you are come home to us at last?”
“You know about the raid on my village. I was lost—sold into slavery. For years I tried to find out about my family, but I was too young to remember Recently I finally learned my father’s name.”
Deep sadness flooded the knight’s face. “Too late,” he mourned. “Your father was a great man. A good friend.”
“I met him,” Bronwyn admitted. “I went to Thornhold to see him.”