Thornhold

by Elaine Cunningham

  “Hurry, you fools!” he shouted out. “I can’t hold her forever!”

  Bronwyn thrust a hand into her hair and yanked out the stiletto she had hidden in the thick coils. The weapon was designed for precise, careful attack, but there was no time. She stabbed back over her shoulder and met yielding flesh.

  But the narrow knife did not strike hard or deep. Malchior yelped and tightened his grip. Again she struck, this time punching into the bones of his hands. She tore at the blade, then lashed out a third time.

  Finally he released her—just as the door burst open in an explosion of wood. Bronwyn darted a quick look over her shoulder. Three men charged into the steamy room. There was little time for escape, but fury prompted her to turn back to the priest, and slash the point of the tiny blade across his sagging jowls.

  Then she was gone, racing for the window. She flung aside the drapes and kicked open the wooden shutters. The latch gave, and she plunged out the window to the street below.

  Time stood still as Bronwyn fell. An instant, no more, before she struck the quilted awning that her assistant had stretched between this building and the next, two floors down from the room that housed the private bath. She bounced slightly, then felt about for the tunic that was supposed to have been left there. She found it, quickly pulled it over her head, then rolled to the edge of the awning. She lowered herself down and dropped to the street, then took off at a run for the safety of her shop.

  To her immense relief—and her surprise—she was not pursued. Perhaps Malchior decided not to take the risk. After all, Zhentish priests could hardly afford to advertise their presence, even in a city as tolerant as Waterdeep. He had the necklace, and at a ridiculously low price. No doubt he considered the bargain well made.

  But why then had he called his men? The attack made no sense. She had already received payment, so it was no attempt to defraud her. Perhaps he had learned that she was a Harper. That would be reason enough for him to kill her. But his words indicated that he planned to keep her, not kill her. Did he have ambitions of turning her, making her into a hidden agent of the Zhentarim?

  Bronwyn pondered this as she wove back through the city, following a complex path that took her through alleys and into the back room of a pipeweed shop whose owner was friendly to Harpers and their small intrigues. She emerged from the shop shod in the slippers she’d left there, her tunic decently covered by a linen kirtle and her wet hair hanging in a single braid. Thus attired, she could walk without notice through the elegant market area, just another tradeswoman on some errand for her household, or a servant indulging the whim of a mistress.

  Finally she turned onto the Street of Silks, marveling again at her good fortune to have secured a lease on a shop in this posh district. Convenient to the Market and the wealthy Sea Ward, the street was a long, broad avenue of shops and taverns that catered to Waterdeep’s wealthy. Only the finest merchandise and the most skilled craftsmen found a place on this street. The shops reflected this status. Tall buildings, constructed of good timber and wattle-and-daub, or even fine stone masonry, were decked with carved and painted wooden signs, bright banners, and even small beds of flowers. The street lamps glowed brightly, casting a golden light upon the elegantly dressed people who strolled the cobbled paths. Minstrels were plentiful, and as Bronwyn walked down the street, the music shifted around her in a pleasant kaleidoscope of sound. The dinner hour was long past, and most of the shops had closed, but in Waterdeep there were diversions to be had at all hours. Taverns and festhalls stayed open until breakfast. Lavish private parties and smaller, clandestine celebrations kept many of the more privileged citizens happily occupied until daylight. Those who earned their living with hard labor and skilled crafts were more likely to sleep and rise with the sun. Bronwyn heartily wished that she were one of them.

  She was not surprised to see that the lights in her shop were still burning. She unlocked the door and stepped into the warm, appealing jumble of curiosities and treasures. Her assistant, a white-haired, rosy-cheeked gnome woman who went by the name Alice Tinker was studying an emerald ring through a jeweler’s glass. She looked up when Bronwyn entered, not bothering to lower the glass. The result—one normal gnomish eye, one magnified to a size more fitting to a blue-eyed beholder—set Bronwyn back on her heels.

  Alice laughed merrily and set down the glass. “Busy day we had, eh?”

  “Aye,” Bronwyn agreed on a sigh. “Did you have time to sketch the piece I sent through?” So tired was she that the words sounded muzzy even to her own ears.

  “That I did. I’ve matched the color with some bits of amber we had hereabouts, and I’ll use that as a guide to add the proper tints on the morrow.”

  Bronwyn nodded. She kept a portfolio of such sketches, a record of the rare pieces that passed through her hands, under lock and spell-guard in her safe. Some of the drawings she did herself, but most of the work fell to Alice’s small, capable hands. The gnome was a positive treasure. She kept the shop and wrote up sales while Bronwyn was out adventuring and making deals. The two of them were a true team, and the success of Curious Past belonged to them both. To be sure, Alice tended to treat her employer like her own oversized child, but Bronwyn was willing to overlook that single lapse.

  “Tomorrow will be soon enough,” she agreed and turned to the stairs that led to the chamber she kept over the shop.

  “Oh! One thing more,” Alice called after her. “That young bard was in earlier, looking for you. Says it’s important he talks to you at your earliest convenience. Something about a necklace.”

  That would be Danilo, of course. Again, tomorrow would be soon enough. “Fine. Good.” Bronwyn said, and staggered up the stairs.

  Alice followed her to the base of the stairs, her fists planted on her hips and her brown, apple-cheeked face filled with motherly reproach. “Look at you, child! Dead on your feet! I keep telling you to take some time off, laze around the shop a bit.”

  Ignoring the gnome’s continuing harangue, Bronwyn climbed up to her chamber, intending to fall face first onto the bed and hoping she could stay awake that long.

  But when she reached the chamber, all thoughts of sleep fled. In the center of the room, leaning on his staff and regarding her with a somber, measuring gaze, stood the most feared and powerful wizard in Waterdeep.

  Bronwyn gaped at Khelben Arunsun, the Master Harper who ultimately directed her activities, but whom she had never met. She considered herself well versed in the custom and protocol of a dozen races and threescore lands, but for the life of her she could not decide which of three equally compelling responses she should chose:

  Should she bow, flee, or faint?

  * * * * *

  Two men, both clad in the purple and black of Cyric’s clergy, strolled through the villa’s garden. A bright moon lit the white-pebbled path. Though it was still early spring, the air was scented with the fragrance of a few timid flowers. Three fountains played merrily into tiled pools.

  “I have been hearing interesting things about you,” Malchior said, slanting a glance at the man who had been his most talented and promising acolyte.

  Dag Zoreth inclined his head in acknowledgment—and evasion. His mentor knew too much about him, had made a study of the family from which Dag had been torn. Some of this information he had recently shared: the location of the village from which Dag had been stolen, the rumors of power inherent in the family bloodline, the current post held by his illustrious father. He often wondered what else Malchior knew. He also wondered how the priest got that livid cut down his left cheek—and he envied the man who had put it there.

  “It would appear that you have a more intriguing tale to tell,” Dag commented, raising a finger and tracing a line down his own cheek.

  The older priest merely shrugged. “You recently traveled to Jundar’s Hill and rode alone into the foothills along the Dessarin. I am curious, my son, what prompted you to take such chances just to visit the site of your home village?”

&
nbsp; So that was it. Word had reached Malchior faster than Dag had expected. “I, too, am curious,” he said. “What you told me of my past intrigued me, but there are still many holes in my story. I sought to fill some of them.”

  “And did you?”

  “One or two.” Dag turned a stony gaze upon the older priest. “You told me that the raid was the work of an ambitious rival paladin. But the men who attacked were Zhentarim soldiers. Looking back from where I stand, I can see that plainly.”

  This clearly took Malchior aback. “How is this possible? You were a child.”

  “I know,” Dag said simply. “The matter is between me and my god.”

  There was little Malchior would say to counter this pronouncement. For several moments they walked together in silence. “This villa, your new responsibilities,” he began, “these things you have earned. I have something more for you. A gift.” He paused to add weight to the coming words. “You are not the last of Samular’s bloodline. Your sister also survived that raid and is alive and well.”

  Dag froze, stunned by this revelation. It did not occur to him to challenge Malchior’s words; indeed, as the realization sank home, he wondered why he should be so surprised. He remembered the Cyric-given vision, the bold and curious little girl diving headlong from the small window to investigate the coming raid. His sister Bronwyn, dimly remembered as the bane of his young existence. Of course. He had been spared—why not the girl?

  A sister. He had a sister. Dag was not certain how he felt about this. Vaguely he remembered his father’s deep, disapproving voice lamenting the little girl’s bold ways—and wondering why her older brother was not half so intrepid.

  “How is she? Where is she?”

  “In Waterdeep,” Malchior answered. He grimaced and touched the livid cut on his face. “And trust me, she does well enough. I met and spoke with her earlier this very night.”

  So that was Bronwyn’s work. The years had passed, but still she had the courage to act when Dag held back. This did not please him, but the discomfited expression on Malchior’s wounded face most assuredly did.

  “For a paladin’s daughter, she is quick with a knife,” Dag commented with dark amusement. “You are not usually so incautious as to overlook a hidden weapon.”

  “A naked woman,” Malchior grumbled, “with a stiletto hidden in her hair. Men must be cautious in these treacherous times.”

  This time Dag laughed aloud. “Oh, that is priceless! Wouldn’t the great Hronulf be proud?”

  The older priest shrugged. “She is an interesting woman, a finder of lost antiquities who has made it her life’s work to collect pieces of the past. Ironically, she has not been able to recover her own history. Yet she is clearly desperate to do so. She was willing to trade a gemstone artifact for information. You could exploit this. And you should.” Again he grimaced. “I ran into some … interference. Had I not prepared for that possibility and importuned Cyric aforetime for spells to take me to this place, the night would have ended more disastrously than it did. Clearly, we are not the only ones in possession of this knowledge. Your sister is watched, protected. If you do not stake claim to this woman and whatever power she wields, someone else will.”

  “Yes,” Dag murmured. “What do you suggest?”

  Malchior’s eyebrows rose. It had been some years since his former student had asked for advice. “I have given into your hands the man who betrayed your father, and you. Use him. Let him lure your sister to a place where you can, shall we say, exert a degree of brotherly influence.”

  The young priest nodded. “Well said. And what, if I may be so bold, do you hope to gain from any of this?”

  “Gain? We have known each other for many years. You have been like a son,” Malchior began. When Dag began to chuckle, the priest gave up the attempt and shrugged. “There is power in your family. I don’t understand its precise nature. That is for you to discover. But I trust that you will do so and share your discovery with me.”

  “Really?” Dag imbued the single word with a great deal of skepticism. Malchior was not a man to be trusted, and he assumed that all other men dealt as he did.

  “Let us say that there is power enough for both. I desire your success with all my heart, for it is a stepping-stone to my own.”

  That, Dag could believe and understand. “Very well. When Bronwyn is under my influence, when I understand the scope of my heritage, then you and I will speak again.”

  “I am satisfied to wait.” Suddenly the priest’s jovial expression disappeared, and his eyes were as flat and hungry as a troll’s. “You understand, of course, the price of failure.”

  “Of course,” Dag said smoothly. “Have I not inflicted it often enough? Ask any failed man under my command the price of his failure—but first, prepare to summon his spirit.”

  Malchior blinked, then began to laugh. “Well enough. A drink then, to seal our agreement.” He linked his arm with Dag’s, and together they strolled back toward the darkness of the villa.

  * * * * *

  “Forgive the intrusion,” Khelben Arunsun said in a deep, faintly accented voice, “but circumstances demanded that we meet and speak. Please, sit down.”

  Still too dazed for thought, Bronwyn sank down on the nearest available seat—the old sea chest that held her linens. The archmage took the chamber’s only chair. Staff in hand, he looked uncomfortably like a magistrate about to pass judgment on some unknown crime.

  “It has come to my attention that you have accepted a commission from a priest of Cyric, a man known as Malchior.”

  How had he learned of this so soon? Bronwyn shook off this second surprise and marshaled her wits. “That is so, Lord Arunsun.”

  “What precisely was your thinking in this matter? Need I remind you that conspiring with the Zhentarim is hardly an approved Harper activity?”

  “True enough, my lord. But it is part of my job. I was recruited by the Harpers for my contacts. A wide range of customers seek my services.”

  “And simple prudence dictates that you set limits. Correct me if I err, but was it not your intention to deliver gemstones containing significant magical power to Malchior of Cyric?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “What do you know of the man? What is the nature of your dealings with him?”

  Before Bronwyn could form a defense, a tap at her open lintel distracted both her and her visitor. A familiar, fair-haired man lounged against the door post. He held up one hand to display a length of golden beads and silver filigree.

  Bronwyn’s eyes widened at the sight of the amber necklace. For a moment, she forgot the daunting presence of the archmage. “Damn it, Dan, what are you doing with that?”

  “I should like to know that, myself,” Khelben intoned in a grim voice. He rose and faced down the younger man. “Why did you bring the necklace here?”

  “Why wouldn’t I? It belongs to Bronwyn,” Danilo said.

  “No, it doesn’t,” she gritted out. “I received payment. The bargain was made.”

  “Was it?” Her friend’s usually merry face showed deep concern. He walked into the room and sat beside her on the sea chest. “From what I hear, there was a slight downturn in the course of bartering. Something about an attempted kidnapping and a leap from a fourth floor window? Why are you so angry about a little assistance, Bronwyn? They might have killed you.”

  This argument did nothing to lessen Bronwyn’s ire. “Obviously, they did not succeed. I was away before your … friends … made an appearance.” She gave him an impatient little shove. “Don’t you realize what you have done?”

  His eyebrows rose. “I thought I did. Obviously you are of a different opinion, and the archmage quite clearly holds a distinct third. Since I am sure he will share his thoughts with me at a later time, no doubt in four-part harmony, why don’t we discuss your views?”

  Bronwyn leaped to her feet and strode to the little window that overlooked the city. “Promise made, promise kept. That’s my reputation and th
e most valuable thing I possess. This is the first time I have not delivered. You have undermined more than a single deal. Now do you understand?”

  The silence stretched out for a long, tense moment. “The necklace has great magical value and must be properly safeguarded,” Khelben said.

  Bronwyn struggled to hold her temper. Hadn’t the archmage heard a word? Or did such minor things matter nothing? After all, what regard does a dragon have for a mouse?

  “I’ll keep it in my safe,” she said in a stiff tone. “Danilo can tell you what magical wards have been placed upon it.”

  Her friend rose and placed one hand on her shoulder. “What price did the necklace command? I will see that Malchior is amply compensated. Although that will not fully satisfy him, it may serve to restore your honor in his eyes and your own. We owe you that.”

  “And more.” She tipped back her head to glare at her friend. It was a relief, not having to hide her irritation. “You’ll have to forgive me if I prefer to collect at some later time.”

  A faint smirk lifted one corner of the bard’s lips. “Lord Arunsun, I do believe we are being thrown out.”

  Bronwyn glanced at the archmage. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Of course you did,” Dan broke in smoothly. “And not without justification. Get some rest. The day’s … bargaining has taken a toll.” Before she could respond, the two men turned and left her chamber by the back stairs. Bronwyn sat staring after them, all thoughts of sleep vanished.

  * * * * *

  As the Harpers walked down the stairs, Khelben began to transform. His broad form compacted and lengthened into that of a lithe young man, and his clothing changed from somber black to shades of forest brown and green. The silver streaks disappeared from his hair and beard, and his face took on a faintly elven appearance.

  Danilo had seen this so many times that he did not remark on it. The archmage seldom went about the city wearing his own face. In fact, neither man spoke at all until they had reached the alley behind Curious Past.

  “What were you thinking, bringing the necklace to Bronwyn’s shop? Now she is aware that Harpers are watching her.”