Algorind eyed his new quarters with dismay. "Sir, am I a prisoner?"
"The cage is for your protection, nothing more. Given your size, it seemed prudent. I'll leave the door open, if you like, and you can close it if need arises."
"May I have my sword? The Harper who brought me here said he would give it to you."
Sir Gareth plucked a long silver pin from his tabard, a gleaming broadsword, in perfect miniature. He regarded it for a moment, his gaze shifting between the weapon and the young man.
"You have grown somewhat. The sword has not. But I suppose it will serve as a table knife."
The knight dropped the tiny weapon through the bars of the cage, so that it fell onto the folded linen "cot."
And with that, the vaguely uneasy feelings Algorind had experienced since entering Sir Gareth's home took sharp, disturbing focus. Surely no true paladin would treat a sword dedicated to Tyr with such casual disregard!
It all made sense now: the vision of corrupted fields, the carefully tailored story that left out any mention of Sir Gareth's part in the tale of little Cara Doon, even the lavishly appointed home. Sir Gareth had long served as treasurer for the Knights of Samular. Every paladin of the order paid tithes, and all of those funds flowed through Gareth's hands. No wonder the Harper who'd brought Algorind here had had such difficulty finding Sir Gareth's home. Algorind had assumed the clerics of Tyr's temple were merely protecting the old knight's privacy, but now that he considered their responses, it seemed more likely that they themselves didn't know. And small wonder Gareth kept them away-they would not be pleased to learn how their tithes were put to use.
Algorind schooled his face to a calm he did not feel and stood quietly through Sir Gareth's parting advice. He listened as the door to the library was closed and locked, his host's footsteps echoed down the hall. Once the outer door thudded shut, Algorind set to work unraveling long threads from the loosely woven linen and plaiting them into a makeshift rope.
He worked quickly, anxious to finish before Sir Gareth returned. When he judged the length sufficient, he tied one end of the rope to the bars of his cage and tossed the rest off the table. He lowered himself to the floor, and then used his dagger-sized sword to cut off a length of rope. This he coiled and tucked through his belt.
Tracking was a skill all future Knights of Samular learned in boyhood, but Algorind had never expected to track a mouse across a Calishite carpet. It was surprisingly easy; the signs of the creature's passage were as visible to Algorind's eye as those a deer might leave in the belly-high grass of a meadow. He followed the trail to a small knothole in the wood panel, one made nearly invisible by the grain of the wood and shadows cast by nearby furnishings.
Algorind crawled through the knothole and lowered himself carefully into a thick layer of dust, wood shavings, scraps, of plaster, and other detritus. The clutter inside the wall was dimly visible in the light that filtered down from an opening high overhead. This was a huge relief to Algorind, for he had expected to grope his way through total darkness in search of an exit.
Even so, the way out was also a very long way up. The young paladin took a deep breath and began to climb.
Hours passed as he pulled himself toward the light, finding handholds in the rough wood and plaster. His fingers bled and the muscles in his shoulders sang with pain, but he dared not slow his pace. Day was swiftly giving way to darkness, and the bit of sky visible through the opening under the eaves was turning a dusky purple.
Finally a ledge appeared just above Algorind. He pulled himself up and rolled onto a broad, flat board.
Standing was pure pleasure. He took a moment to stretch out sore muscles before venturing out onto the roof. As he flung his arms out wide, his fingers brushed against soft fur.
Algorind leaped away, drawing his weapon as he spun back toward the unknown creature.
His first response was, oddly enough, surprise; he'd never considered that demons might have fur.
Soulless black eyes regarded him from the center of hideous brown face, one so malformed that only when the fanged mouth opened did Algorind realize the creature was hanging upside down.
A keening scream burst from the "demon." Immediately the air was full of the thunder of wings and a chorus of hellish, high-pitched shrieks.
Never had Algorind heard such a sound. It reverberated against the inside of his skull, grating against bone like the talons of a dragon hatchling trying to claw free of its egg.
The board beneath his feet seemed to spin and tilt. He dropped to his knees for fear of falling, hands clasped to his ears. Blood trickled through his fingers, and the pain in his head soared beyond any he'd ever known, worse than that of being trapped in Bronwyn's siege tower and shrunk smaller than the bat he'd just disturbed.
And not just one bat-a vast colony of them, roosting in the attic of Sir Gareth's house. For what seemed a very long time they swept past him, their wings buffeting him as they darted out into the gathering night, shrieking all the while.
When at last they were gone, Algorind struggled to his feet and waited for the worst of the dizziness to pass. A high-pitched ringing was the only sound he could hear. That troubled him, but he would deal with it later. As soon as he could walk, he made his way to the opening.
The city of Waterdeep spread out before him, in all its splendor and squalor. Fine city gardens and ornate fences fronted the buildings in Sir Gareth's neighborhood; urchins picked through discarded crates for scraps of food in the narrow alleys behind. The twilight sky glowed like liquid sapphires, and streetlamps winked into life as lamplighters hurried along the streets, racing against swift-coming night. Algorind could see the leisurely swing of bells in the high tower of a nearby temple. No sound reached him. Except for the ringing in his ears, the city was eerily silent.
He eased through the opening, testing his weight on the narrow ledge beyond. The roof, which was tiled in blue slate, rose in a steep angle.
About five feet away from Algorind's perch, a drain pipe carried rain water to the street below. It appeared to be fashioned of segments of pipe, short enough for him to employ his rope and move from one to the next. But at his current size, five feet might as well be a thousand, and the slate ledge between Algorind and the drainpipe had worn away.
He studied the roof. Several tiles had crumbled or fallen away altogether, and moss and lichen grew in the dirt that settled over the passage of years. A ribbon of moss started just above his perch, growing upward and then meandering across the roof. If he could climb just a couple of feet up the roof, he could make his way across to the drainpipe.
Algorind tugged at a handful of moss and found it surprisingly stable. He began to climb, and for many moments the effort absorbed his entire concentration. Too late, he sensed a disturbance in the air above him and looked up into wide yellow eyes and reaching talons.
Faster than thought, the owl snatched him up and winged away.
Algorind reached for his sword, but immediately realized the folly of attacking his captor in mid-flight. Sooner or later, the owl would find a perch and Algorind would do whatever he could to defend himself. He settled himself as best he could and got a grip on the owl's talons, which were as hard and dry as the roots of a great tree.
Despite the gravity of his situation, Algorind started to enjoy the sensation of flight, the rush of night wind. The world spread out before him, city streets reduced to ribbons and great buildings no grander than a child's blocks. Beyond the city walls lay the lush darkness of meadow and farmlands, and beyond that, who could tell? Anything was possible. Even the stars looked like tiny silver apples, ripe for plucking.
Never had Algorind known such exhilaration, such wild joy! He threw back his head and let out a great shout of laughter. He would likely die this night, but now, at this moment, he was flying! By Tyr's Hammer, whatever came after would be a small price to pay!
27 Tarsakh, the Year of the Red Rain (927 DR)
Griffenwing Keep
&nbs
p; Everything had gone wrong. Horribly, incomprehensibly wrong.
Renwick had been so certain Samular would applaud his plan to recover artifacts long entrusted to the Caradoon family. Of that large and noble clan, only their father had survived. Renwick was certain he and his brothers could recover or duplicate those lost treasures. To what other task should the three living Caradoon men dedicate themselves, if not this?
But Renwick's attempts bind a demon to this cause had torn open a rift between him and Samular. Their twin-born affection was all but sundered by the death of Amphail, their older brother, who had been willing to bear one of the three rings and hold another for his firstborn son. And Nimra-
Nimra. The very thought of her nearly broke Renwick's heart. Nothing else in his whole misbegotten scheme had gone so terrible awry.
It didn't take the demon long to realize that Renwick had deliberately misled him, that he had intended all along for the three rings to go to the three Caradoon brothers, all of them dedicated to the service of Tyr. But by then, it hardly mattered. The ancient spell Renwick had taught Nimra, one that promised an innocent could bind a demon to her will in the service of good, had failed.
In a cruel twist of irony, Nimra had fulfilled all of Renwick's false promises to Yamarral, and more. Amphail had died with Nimra's dark magic coursing through his veins, Nimra's dagger at his throat. With his death, two of the rings passed to Nimra's twin-born sons. And upon Nimra's death-may Tyr forgive him that grim necessity! — control of those rings passed to Renwick, their guardian.
The weight of so much magic had burned years from Renwick's life in a matter of months, turning his hair prematurely white and etching deep furrows in his face. No one mistook him for Samular's twin now; indeed, most people thought him the eldest of the three Caradoon brothers. He had ceased correcting them, for what was that to him? All that mattered was setting right what had gone so wrong.
Renwick stole a sidelong glance at the man who walked at his side. His companion was tall, dark-haired, and bearded. His age was impossible to tell; he walked with the easy stride of youth, but his eyes held the weight of centuries.
At the moment, those eyes were fixed upon the fortress ahead. Griffenwing Keep was ancient; Caradoon ancestors had built it upon the site of an even earlier stronghold. The original earthwork mounds were still visible around the wall of grey stone. Towers loomed above the tall outer wall. The overall aspect was craggy and rough, as if the mountain had taken this form of its own choice. The gardens surrounding the wall, however, showed the touch of Art. Some dark whimsy caused the fountains to run red and filled the garden with blood red flowers. This was Nimra's work, a symbol of what she had become in two short years. To Renwick's eye, the garden was more disturbing than a monster-infested moat.
"I am grateful for your assistance in this matter," he told his companion.
The wizard sometimes known as Khelben Arunsun responded with a curt nod. "You did well to send for me. Ascalhorn is trouble enough. How did demons come to command this stronghold?"
"A prideful wizard, a summoning gone awry," Renwick said, genuine sorrow and regret painting his tones. "But before her death, my niece gave me the means to banish the demon."
Khelben gave him a searching look, and Renwick felt the subtle tug of truth-test magic. It slid off him easily; few spells recognized a lie fashioned by placing two truths next to each other. Let Khelben think Nimra was the prideful wizard who had summoned the demon. It was better so.
Renwick slipped one hand into the bag at his belt, stroking one of the tiny hands hidden within-another grim necessity, for the blood token required the rings to be worn by three of Samular's blood. Still pink and perfect, the little fingers curled and flexed in the grasping movements common to healthy babes. His young wards lay at Caradoon Keep, where they would sleep peacefully until his return, knowing neither pain nor loss. He was not, after all, a cruel man.
Deals with demons were notoriously tricky, but a canny wizard could find his own out-gates. The blood token required the rings to be worn by three of Samular's blood, and wielded by combined will. Yamarral had neglected to specify that "blood" and "will" had to come from the same individuals. Combined will was necessary, of course, and the infants had no opinions of their own. Fortunately, Khelben Arunsun had no shortage in that regard.
Renwick surreptitiously slipped the rings from the two tiny, living thumbs. The rings expanded in his grasp to fit his much-larger fingers. With a flourish, he presented the trio to Khelben.
The wizard glanced at the rings and raised his gaze to Renwick's face. He looked unimpressed, even slightly impatient.
Piqued, Renwick snapped, "These are more powerful than you could know! United, the three rings form a rare and mighty artifact known as a blood token."
"The demon has offspring?" Khelben demanded. Understanding swept over his faced, followed by a mixture of sorrow and revulsion. "So that is the measure of Nimra Caradoon's alliance with this demon."
Renwick silently cursed himself for this lapse. But how could he have known Khelben would be familiar with magic so ancient and obscure? It had been vigorously suppressed; there were perhaps five written references yet in existence, and Renwick owned three of them.
He quickly gathered himself. "Then you know I hold the means to banish this demon. I am heir to Nimra's folly and guardian of her sons, but I lack the magical strength to accomplish the banishment alone. Bind your will to mine with the spell I will teach you, and thus will all be done."
The wizard asked Renwick many pointed questions. Fortunately, his knowledge of blood tokens was not as complete as Renwick had feared. When at last Khelben was satisfied with the carefully prepared half-truths, he turned his attention to the spell. This he learned with demoralizing speed and ease.
Their shared casting was more successful than Renwick had dared hope. The entire keep, including the blood red gardens, simply faded away.
For a long moment Khelben stared in stunned silence at the mountain meadow. He turned to Renwick, and whatever he saw in the younger wizard's face seemed to deliver a second blow. Khelben steadied himself against an oak and took a long breath. "The rings you used in the casting. What else can they do?"
"Why do you ask? Was this day's work not enough for you?"
Temper blazed in Khelben's eyes. Before Renwick could respond, the wizard seized him by the cloak, lifted him off his feet, and slammed him against the tree.
"There were people in that keep, you lying orc-whelp!" he roared. "A blood token would have dispelled the demon, nothing more. Tell me where you found those three rings, and the nature of their power!"
Renwick summoned a smile and a lie. "What they were meant to be, I do not know." He couldn't resist adding, "What use I have made of them… you will not know."
Khelben released him and stepped back, his face set with grim purpose. "You know you cannot stand against me in spell battle."
"I do not intend to." Renwick lifted both hands to show that the rings had disappeared from his fingers. "The rings, and a partial knowledge of the power they wield, are in the hands of an adversary you cannot defeat."
The disbelief on Khelben Arunsun's face was priceless. Renwick had heard tell the wizard was elf-blooded. Khelben didn't particularly resemble his elven forebears in physical matters, but apparently he was as convinced of his own superiority as any high elf noble.
"You do not ask me of whom I speak. Pride forbids it, I suppose," Renwick observed. "I will tell you nonetheless. Samular will hold the rings, as will his descendants after him."
"The paladin?"
"Samular is not just any paladin. He is destined for legend. With my help, of course."
Khelben nodded slowly as he came to understand just how far out of reach the rings had been placed.
"A paladin's way is righteous and good," Renwick said, finding an unexpected pleasure in rubbing salt into the wizard's wounds. "If you do not stand with him, many men will assume you stand against him."
Renwick smiled. "Then it is in your best interest to make certain this does not occur. After all, you helped send nearly two hundred innocent souls to an unknown fate. Once the tale begins to be told, who knows where it will end?"
Khelben did not react well to threats-or perhaps he resented the implication that his conscience could be silenced. He lunged at Renwick, eyes blazing with wrath. This time Renwick was ready for him. He dropped a portable hole onto the ground and stepped into it.
The mountain wind rose to a wail as Renwick swept along the magic pathway. He emerged safely inside the grey fastness of Caradoon Keep, and not a moment too soon. The shouts of the guards and hostlers in the keep's courtyard announced his brother's eminent return.
Renwick gathered up his robes and took the stairs two at a time. If he hurried, he'd have just enough time to reassemble Nimra's babies before their grandsire arrived.
29 Mirtul, the Year of the Banner (1368 DR)
Waterdeep
A sharp, staccato tapping dragged Danilo Thann's attention from his studies. He glanced up from a particularly thick, dusty tome and noted the shadows playing against one of the multi-paned windows placed high on the opposite wall. He shaped a cantrip with a quick, one-handed gesture. The latch opened and the window swung inward. A silver owl swooped in, dropped its burden on Danilo's desk, and flapped up to perch on a high shelf.
Danilo was not particularly surprised to note the identity of his small visitor. Algorind had been a thorn in Bronwyn's side, and therefore his own, for the better part of a month. Since no reasonable man would expect the paladin's nature to change along with his size, Danilo had set up certain safeguards against Algorind's escape.
The Stories of Elaine Cunningham Page 2