“There was an escape shoot. My father insisted that I take it.”
“Ah. That explains all. Hronulf would know of such. The fortress has been in your family for many years.”
This created an opening Bronwyn hadn’t considered using until this moment. “It was Hronulf’s wish that I come to you, Master Laharin. He said I should avail myself of your good council regarding the future of my family.. . .“ She let her voice trail off uncertainly and dropped her eyes as if she were overcome with maidenly modesty.
“Ah.” Laharin clearly understood Hronulf’s thinking. “Yes, you must find a suitable match. There are several young men here who might suit. I will think on the matter.”
“In the meanwhile, can you teach me of my heritage? I am not accustomed to being the daughter of a paladin. If I am to be a mother of paladins, I should know more about the order.”
“I will show you Summit Hall, and gladly!”
Laharin rose and tucked her hand into his arm. Together they strolled through the fortress. He showed her the training field, the barracks where the young men slept, stables filled with beautiful horses, armories well stocked with nearly every weapon Bronwyn could name. There was a library with some old books and maps. “You may read anything here, at your leisure,” Laharin assured her. “All the stories and lore must be passed to your sons. Do you remember hearing the tales?”
“Vaguely,” she admitted. “Just the shape and rhythm of them.” Her eyes followed a thin boy who bustled down the hall toward them. She judged him to be a page by the cut of his tunic, and the pile of linen in his arms. He was thin and boasted a mop of bright auburn hair and a liberal sprinkling of freckles on his face and bare arms. He looked all of eight years old.
Laharin followed her gaze, noting the puzzlement in her eyes. “The lads who wish to enter Tyr’s service come to us before they have reached ten winters, and stay usually ten years.”
“So young....”
He gave her a look that was both stern and sympathetic. “It is the way of men to dedicate their lives to the service of Tyr. Women, I suspect, have a harder task. They must dedicate their sons.”
Bronwyn murmured something suitably docile and followed the knight down a long, narrow flight of stone steps into what appeared to be a dungeon. There were a few cells, none of which were occupied, and at the end of the hall another flight leading further down. Laharin took a torch from a wall bracket and bid her follow.
“This tunnel leads to the kitchen cellars,” he explained.
She pointed to a low, curved wooden door. The latch was chained and locked, rusted almost to dust. “What is that?”
“Nothing of great consequence. It is a tunnel leading to the old tower outside the walls. No one has used it for centuries.”
This struck Bronwyn as very strange thinking indeed. “You are not afraid that someone will gain access to the monastery through the tower?”
“No,” he said shortly. He squared his shoulders and smoothed the frown from his face with visible effort. “The tower is clearly visible from the guard tower. No one has gone in or out for centuries.”
“Then why—”
“It is part of our heritage,” he broke in. “Few know this story, but you should hear it. The tower once belonged to the brother of Samular, a wizard of great power known as Renwick ‘Snowcloak’ Caradoon. It was Samular’s wish that a training monastery be built around that tower, and that it remain undisturbed for all time in honor of his brother, who died in battle as bravely as any knight.”
At least, that was Samular’s story, Bronwyn thought as she recalled what Khelben had told her about this place, and what she should look for. “That is an inspiring story. Samular knew the value of family,” she said, arranging her face in a wide-eyed, guileless expression.
Laharin gave her an odd look, as if he was suddenly considering how much Bronwyn truly knew about her family’s value. The moment passed swiftly, chased by a glimmer of self-reproach. He was not a man, Bronwyn noted with a touch of guilt, who was often or easily suspicious. She truly hated abusing his good will. On the other hand, she was not ready to turn herself and the power of her family heritage— whatever that might be—over to the order.
She spent a pleasant day with the knight, but begged off dinner by claiming travel weariness. She waited until the paladins and priests were at their evening devotions. Then she sneaked through the courtyard and back into the keep. Khelben had bid her look for a tower outside the main fortress. That old tunnel was her best way in. She took a torch from the upper level, as Laharin had done, and made her way to the low wooden portal.
Breaking the rusted lock was easy. Three sharp taps with the hilt of her knife, and the old chain fell away. Bronwyn crept through, one hand sweeping the air before her to tear away the tangle of spider webs that curtained the place like mist. The floor was alive, too; beetles and worse crunched underfoot as she made her way through.
The tunnel seemed to rise as she walked. To her surprise, the passage ended with a solid stone wall. Refusing to give in to discouragement, she lay one hand on the stone. A tingling sensation ran up her arm, and a sweet, wordless summons beckoned her in.
Bronwyn snatched her hand back, startled. Beset by a sudden sense of urgency, she again flattened her palm on the stone of the keep and again felt the compelling invitation. She followed her impulse before she could understand it and stepped through the stone wall into the keep. The passage through the solid stone sent an odd, tingling sensation through her entire body and left her feeling strangely chilled.
She wrapped her arms around her shoulders and took a look around. The interior was larger than it looked from the outside, dimly lit by candles thrust into wall sconces. The flickering light revealed stone walls festooned by cobweb drapery and a ceiling that vaulted up farther than her eye could follow.
“Welcome, daughter of Samular,” intoned a faint, rusty voice.
Bronwyn whirled, startled by the unearthly sound, and found herself looking straight into glowing red eyes, set into a skeletal face.
She swallowed a scream and fell back. At second glance, she understood what manner of being she faced. Ancient, rusty robes hung in tatters about the lank form. Where flesh once had been, there was only bone wrapped in papery gray. Lank strings of white hair straggled out from beneath the cowl of a once-white cape. Yet there was life, of a sort, in those glowing red eyes. This was a lich, an undead wizard, and one of the most feared and powerful beings known.
The creature advanced. “Daughter of Samular,” it repeated. “You have little need to fear me. I have waited long for this day and for one such as you. The Fenrisbane—its time has come? You have come for it, and for the third ring?”
Because it seemed the thing to do, and because she was not certain her voice would serve her, Bronwyn nodded.
The lich darted forward with a skittering rattle. It seized Bronwyn’s arms with bony fingers, and tears of dust and mold leaked from its glowing eyes. “At last you have come! The wonders we will know, and the glory! Wait here.”
Bronwyn was released so abruptly that she almost fell. She rubbed her arms where the lich’s touch had chilled her. She watched, bemused, as the creature hobbled up the stairs that wound around the inside wall of the tower. Several minutes dragged by, and she was considering attempting a retreat when the lich reappeared, a small box in its skeletal hand. “The third ring,” it said reverently, and handed her the box.
Bronwyn opened it and slipped the ring onto her left hand as her father had done. As with the other, this one magically sized itself to her finger.
“What of the Fenrisbane?” she asked, remembering the name the lich had spoken, and assuming that this was the much-sought artifact.
“It is not here, of course. I had the siege engine hidden away for safe keeping years ago, much as one would hide a tree in a forest,” the lich said slyly. “It is in the attic of a toy and curiosity shop, in a remote town not too far from the monastery.”
Siege engine. In a toy shop. Bronwyn was beginning to understand what part the rings might have in this. “Why did you do this?” she asked. “I would think the Fenrisbane would be safer here.”
A bony finger waggled in admonition. “There is danger in having the rings and the tower in the same place. The four artifacts should be reunited only when there is a force gathered sufficient to use and to protect the artifacts.” The lich paused, tilted his head, and leaned forward in a menacing gesture. “You don’t have the other rings with you, do you?”
“I know where they are, but I do not have them with me,” she assured the lich. “One is in the hands of another child of Sainular’s blood, a child who is protected by powerful magic. If threatened, she can magically flee within strong walls.”
Some instinct prompted her not to mention Blackstaff Tower.
“Good. That is good. Your forebears have prepared you to wield the Fenrisbane in Samular’s name?”
There was a cunning note in the dry tone that Bronwyn mistrusted. The lich obviously sensed her heritage— perhaps this was a test of her knowledge and worthiness. She answered as truthfully as she could. “My father gave me the ring just before he died in an attack on his fortress. He would want me to use the Fenrisbane to right this wrong.”
The lich nodded avidly, shedding flakes of ancient skin in the process. “Good, good. You have two children of the bloodline, two who are agreed in how to use the rings. That is a needed thing—one person alone cannot fully awaken the Fenrisbane’s magic. Go now, and do.”
Bronwyn was only too glad to obey, but at the wall, she turned back. “The toy shop.”
“Gladestone,” the lich said impatiently. “An old town of elves with long lives and longer memories. Seek out Tintario or his heirs. There is a dweomer on these elves and their shop. They will never sell the Fenrisbane or close the shop. If the need to protect it arises, they will do so or die. See that you do likewise.”
She had one more question, one that she feared to ask. “Who are you? Or, if you prefer, who were you?”
The lich hesitated. Bronwyn got the impression that it was more saddened than aggrieved by this impertinence. “I no longer recall the name I once wore. What I was is lost. What I am now is the Guardian of the Order.” A dry, heavy sound wheezed from the lich, one that might have been a sigh had it come from a living throat. “This puts me in a paradoxical position. Paladins cannot abide undead and would destroy me on sight. For good or ill, few of the paladins and priests in yonder fortress knows who or what inhabits this ancient tower. They simply иonsider it a holy place and are restrained by their order’s edict from disturbing it.”
The lich shook itself, staving off despair as it must have done many times in its long years of undeath. “But now you have come. I entrust the third ring and the Fenrisbane into your care. This I do because you are of the bloodline of Samular, and because I cannot give these things to the paladins for whom they were intended.” The creature darted forward with startling speed and loomed threateningly over Bronwyn.
One bony hand parted the robe. A small black bat flew out from the empty ribcage. The lich paid it no heed, but slipped a tiny scrying globe from an inside pocket of the robe and showed it to her. “I will know what you do,” he said. “Fail, and I will seek you out.”