“You should have gone,” she panted.
“I moved the chest,” Cara reminded her in a small, pale voice.
Bronwyn smiled faintly. “You did well, but you aren’t safe here.”
The child’s eyes darkened, and suddenly they looked far too old for her tiny face. “I really don’t think,” she said softly, “that I’m safe anywhere.”
* * * * *
Back in Thonhold, Dag Zoreth paused before the altar and studied the purple flame that leaped and danced in an ever-changing sunburst, and the enormous black skull that leered out from the fire. It was a symbol of his god, proof of Cyric’s favor. Such a thing would bring him great honor, and inspire men to consider him with fear. It was more than he had hoped for.
But it was not enough.
Dag carefully knelt before the altar, lowering a round, low bowl to the floor. The bowl was brass and so finely crafted that not a single ripple or flaw marred its surface. A perfect receptacle for power, it would seize mystical force and throw it back, much as mountains playfully turned a shout into an echo. Filled with water, the bowl became a scrying pool of enormous power.
Filled with blood, it begged the level of dark power that only an evil god might grant.
Dag braced his hands on either side of the bowl and stared intently into the dark pool. He began to chant, an arrogant prayer that importuned a god for power, and scorned the price that would surely come due. He would pay it in time, and consider it worthwhile—as long as he found Cara.
He formed an image of the girl in his mind and reached out to her through the dark thread of the chant.
The words of the prayer enveloped him, gathering in power. Magic rose like incense toward the purple flame, carrying with it a heady scent of night-blooming flower, musk, and brimstone.
That scent prodded at his memory. Through the ritual-induced haze, Dag felt the first sharp tugs of alarm. His chanting faltered, then broke off altogether as blood began to rise from the bowl.
The blood rose swirling into the air, taking on the shape of a slender, furious elven woman. The image of Ashemmi floated before him, clad in a gown a shade deeper than her usual crimson.
It occurred to Dag suddenly that he was still on his knees. Quickly he rose to his feet and stared down the apparition. “You take a fearful chance, interrupting a ritual to Cyric,” he warned her.
“I felt the magic and followed it!” the image of Ashemmi snapped. “Do not think for a moment that I cannot find you, and that I wifi not!”
A shimmer of dread rippled through Dag as he wondered if the elf had also found Cara. But no, she would have said so if she had. There was no tie binding her and her child, and her seeking magic did not know the paths that belonged to Cara alone. But Dag she knew to the depths of his black heart, as he knew her.
“What do you want, Ashemmi?” He tried to imbue his words with a weary patience.
“The child!”
Not my child, Dag noticed, or even our child. A tool, a weapon. That was all. Cara deserved better.
“She is safe,” Dag said, and believed it to be so. His best intelligence indicated that the child was being kept in Blackstaff Tower, and he was inclined to believe that she was still there. Still, he wanted to see for himself No mere scrying device could pierce that fastness—which was why he had decided to seek a god’s power.
“Safe?” shrieked the apparition. “I have learned that she was apprehended from a southbound slave ship! Do not talk to me of safety.”
This startled Dag. Instantly, he knew who the culprit must be. It would appear, he mused, that he owed his sister a debt of gratitude. It was she who had thwarted this plan and brought Cara back to Waterdeep.
“I had nothing to do with that,” Dag assured Ashemmi’s magical image. “I have no intention of bringing harm to my own child.”
She sniffed. “It does not matter what your intentions are. After a certain level, there is no real difference between evil and ineptitude. I want her, Dag. Find her and bring her to me.”
“You relinquished your rights to the child,” he protested.
“I reclaim them. When you find her, she will be brought to Darkhold. You can bring her, or she will be taken from you. But mark me: the child will be mine!”
The apparition disappeared as suddenly as a lightning bolt. Blood splashed back into the bowl, splattering the floor and the priest.
Dag lifted his eyes to the symbol of Cyric. It seemed to him that the skull had a watchful mien, rather like a wild cat considering the moment to pounce, but the godly manifestation gave no sign of Cyric’s displeasure. Strife, intrigue, illusion—all these things were present in the tableau he and Ashemmi had just presented. Cyric must have found it quite diverting.
But Dag was taking no chances. He left the chapel at once and sent his most expendable servants to clean up after the failed ritual.
* * * * *
When the sounds of battle had died away, Bronwyn unbolted the shutter and looked out over the village. A small cry escaped her at the terrible destruction. Four houses had been reduced to smoldering circles of foundation stone. From this height, they looked like large and very sad campfires. Doors and windows and shutters had been broken, and goods from households and stores lay crushed and scattered in the street. Much worse were the terrible injuries dealt those slumped onto the street, and worse still those who no longer moved.
“Cara. . .“ began Bronwyn.
“I want to find Ebenezer,” the child insisted, sensing what was coming. “I want to see that he is all right.”
She couldn’t deny the child this, nor could she leave her here alone. “Come, then,” she said, and led the way down into the street.
Bronwyn almost stumbled over the paladin. He had taken terrible head wounds, and her gaze didn’t linger on his face, but there was no mistaking that blue and white tabard. A wave of relief swept over her, only slightly darkened by guilt. It did not seem right, to be glad that a “good man”—for he would certainly be regarded as such—had been brutally slain.
They found Ebenezer at the toy store, kicking through the rubble and swearing with impressive creativity. He broke off in mid curse when he saw Cara at Bronwyn’s side. “You kept her here?” he demanded incredulously.
“She wouldn’t go,” Bronwyn responded.
The dwarf shook his head. “Lacks for nothing but a beard, that one. Well, I’ve got some bad news. You’ve got ten guesses, and there’s your first clue.”
He pointed to the back door. The body of an elderly elf stood sentry at the door, pinned to the wooden beam by what might have been his own sword. Inside the store lay two more elf corpses and the remains of five ores. The elves had fought with a fervor all out of proportion to the apparent value of their wares.
Bronwyn stepped over a gray-skinned female ore and began to survey the devastation. The shelves had been tossed down, and toys littered the floor. Dolls and wooden carts and carved farm animals had been tossed contemptuously aside.
Bronwyn noted that there were no small bows and arrows, no wooden swords, no slingshots or miniature catapults. In short, all the toys that trained youngsters for the art of war had been taken.
It was an odd sort of plundering, and from Bronwyn’s point of view, the worse possible situation. She sifted and kicked through the rubble, but she had no more luck than Ebenezer.
“I’m-a gonna take a look around outside,” the dwarf said. “There’s stuff dropped all over. Those ores were in a hurry. Might be I can find it here. Or—” he broke off suddenly and shrugged.
Bronwyn caught the dissonant note, but was too distracted to dwell on it. “Fine,” she muttered. She kept looking, turning over every bit of wood, every scrap of cloth and paper, until she finally had to admit the truth.
The Fenrisbane was gone.
Defeated, she sank down onto an overturned shelf
“But you’re dead!” Cara protested.
Bronwyn jerked around to face the open door. There stood another paladin, a tall, fair-haired young man who matched the description she’d heard from Cara, Alice, and Danilo. This was the paladin who had stolen Cara from her foster family, who had followed Bronwyn to Waterdeep, then to Summit Hall. He simply did not quit. Like a troll, he just picked up the pieces and kept coming. Exasperation swept through Bronwyn.