Thornhold

by Elaine Cunningham

  “He is eager, that is without question,” grumbled Mantasso. The big priest stirred impatiently, drawing an ominous creak from his wooden chair. “Before you continue, I must speak my mind on this matter!”

  “Of course,” Laharin said in a tightly controlled voice. “Why should this matter be different from any other?”

  Algorind blinked, astonished by this sign of disharmony among the Masters. Mantasso, who was watching him keenly, noted this and shook his head in exasperation.

  “I mean no disrespect to any present,” the big priest said, “but this youth belongs in the clergy, not the military order. Is it not our mandate as servants of Tyr to use all our gifts in his service? All? Algorind possesses learning and languages, a quick mind, and a potential for both scholarship and leadership. His knowledge of map lore is remarkable, and he is well spoken and comely. In the priesthood, he could go far and accomplish much, influencing many to the cause of Tyr. But how many paladins live to see their thirtieth winter? Even their twenty-fifth? Perhaps two or three in a hundred! You venerable gentlemen in this chamber are not the rule, but the rare exception!”

  “And Algorind is not exceptional?” retorted Laharin. “We are well aware of the young paladin’s gifts and potential. The Order needs men of his talent and dedication. The matter is settled.” He turned to Algorind. “You have your duty, brother. See that you fulfill it well.”

  Algorind rose, too full of joy for words, and bowed deeply to the Master. He left the study to attend to his quest, certain that nothing could exceed the glory of this moment.

  Sir Gareth followed him and hailed him to a stop. The famed paladin offered Algorind his hand, clasped wrists with him as if Algorind was already a fellow knight. Nor did he leave the matter there. They walked together, and Sir Gareth offered him guidance and advice, instructing him on what steps must be taken once the child was rescued.

  Such fellowship was more honor than Algorind had ever dreamed of. He listened carefully, storing each detail in his carefully trained memory. By the time Algorind’s gear was packed and his white horse readied, Sir Gareth pronounced him ready.

  “You will bring honor to the order, my son,” the great man assured him with a kind smile. “Remember the knightly virtues: courage, honor, justice. To these, I add another: discretion. This is a subtle matter. It is important that you tell no man what you do. Will you so swear?”

  Nearly giddy with excitement and hero worship and holy fervor, Algorind dropped to one knee before the paladin. “In this matter and all others, Sir Gareth, I will do as you command.”

  * * * * *

  It took Bronwyn nearly two days to track down Malchior.

  First, she had to find and question the Harper agents who had carried out Danilo’s bidding and kept Malchior’s men from following her. That was no small task, for secrecy was a habit deeply ingrained among the Harpers, and many were reticent to share secrets even among their own. Fortunately, one of Danilo’s henchmen, Nimble, was a halfling with bardic pretensions. The ditty he composed of the event—his own role dramatically enhanced, naturally—made the rounds of the taverns and meeting places frequented by the short folk. Alice Tinker had heard the song on her evening out, and had brought the tale—along with the loudly protesting halfling—back to Bronwyn.

  Nimble’s tale, when shorn of ornamentation, was of little real help. The priest had disappeared, leaving only a puff of acrid purple smoke. Bronwyn searched the city, calling in every marker she had for information, as well as indebting herself so deeply that the favors she owed, if placed end to end, would keep her busily employed until snowfall. But finally, her efforts bore fruit and led her to an elf who possessed deep resources and an exceedingly dark reputation.

  “You owe me,” the elf said unnecessarily as he handed her a roll of parchment.

  Bronwyn grimaced as she took the parchment, imagining the sort of payment that this particular contact was likely to call in. She unrolled the scroll and whistled in appreciation. It was plans for a medium-sized villa. In tiny script, the elf had noted magical safeguards, hidden doors, concealed alcoves for guards, and other closely guarded secrets. She raised suspicious eyes to her benefactor.

  “How do you know all this?”

  He gave her a supercilious smile. “My dear, I own that building. Since the man you seek has paid his rent in advance, you can do as you like with him—but mind the furniture and do try not to get blood on the carpets.”

  “I’ll do my best,” she said dryly. After exchanging a few more dark pleasantries with the elf, she took her leave and headed for the North Ward.

  At night, this district was quiet, with most of the wealthy residents either behind the walls that surrounded the villas or off pursuing pleasures in a more boisterous part of town. As she walked along the broad, cobbled streets, she wondered how the residents of Waterdeep’s most traditional neighborhood would react if they knew that a priest of Cyric was in their midst. Probably, their response would be much like the elf’s. As long as the priest paid his bills and kept to himself, he was no real threat.

  Bronwyn had ample reason to think otherwise. Malchior had gone through a great deal of trouble to meet her. Tonight, she was determined to discovery why.

  She circled around the Gentle Mermaid festhall, a massive and excessively tasteless stone structure that sprouted more turrets than a hydra had heads, as well as numerous balconies decked with elaborate wrought iron. The building took up the interior of an entire block; she quickly skirted it and cut down Manycats Alley. She glanced up at the lifelike stone heads that lined the eaves of several buildings up ahead, remembering the tavern tales claiming that they sometimes spoke to passersby. But the only voices she heard were those of the stray cats that scrapped over the leavings of butcher shops that plied their trade by day. The scent of these shops hung heavy in the still, mist-laden air. Bronwyn lifted a fold of her cloak over her nose and picked up her pace, careful to avoid the pair of tabbies battling over a length of seafood sausage.

  Not far from the shops, she found the back wall of the villa’s enclosed garden. She ran her fingers over the stone. The latch was exactly where the elf had claimed it would be. Vowing to be generous in her repayment of this particular debt, Bronwyn pressed the latch and waited until the stone door swung open. She slipped through the opening and into the shadows of the grape arbor that cut down the middle of the garden.

  At the end of the arbor, hidden from casual view by lush vines, stood the first guard. Bronwyn remembered him as one of the Zhentish soldiers who had stormed the bathhouse in response to Malchior’s summons. For a moment she hesitated. It was no small thing to kill a man, but he had been very willing to kill her—or to take her captive on Malchior’s behalf, which would surely have proved to be worse.

  She slipped up behind the guard, a length of thin, strong rope held between her hands. With a quick, sudden movement, she plunged her hands through the vines and wrapped the garrote tightly about his throat. A small, strangled noise gurgled from him, growing in volume as he worked his fingers under the rope. He was far stronger than she. With a flash of panic, Bronwyn realized he would soon be able to sing out an alarm.

  She leaped up, planting both feet against the arbor trellis, and leaned back, hauling at the rope. After a moment, the man went silent. Bronwyn tied the garrotte firmly to the trellis, then edged around to the other side. The man’s bulging eyes bore witness to the effectiveness of her attack. She took a long, steadying breath and slipped into the icehouse.

  The villa was well appointed, even to the small, thick-walled building that stored blocks of ice cut from the nearby river, a luxury in the coming months of summer. The house was nearly full now, and as cold as midwinter. Bronwyn drew her cloak closer about her as she edged through the narrow aisle between the blocks.

  At the end of the aisle she found another hidden door. Bronwyn slid it aside and stepped into a dark, small tunnel. She felt about for the promised shelf and the candles kept there. She lit
one and proceeded down a narrow passage to a flight of steep stairs.

  According to the elf landlord, this passage led through the back wall, up into the most lavish bedchamber. Surely she would find Malchior there. She only hoped that she would find him alone.

  Bronwyn crept along the passage, then up a flight of steep wooden stairs. She moved slowly, easing her way along so that no creak would betray her presence. With each step, she felt increasingly uneasy. There were no cobwebs in the tunnel, no sign of mice. How could a passage so well-used be secret?

  Just as she considered turning around, the passage ended at another door, this one a sliding door of thin wood, hidden by a tapestry. Malchior was apparently alone, and at prayer. Bronwyn clamped her eyes shut and tried not to listen as the dreadful cadence of the chant rose and fell. Knowing that Malchior worshiped Cyric was one thing; it was quite another to stand by while the dark and evil god was invoked.

  Finally Malchior finished his devotions. Bronwyn could hear his grunt of exertion as he hauled his bulky frame up off his knees, and then the creaking protest of the wooden floor as he walked past.

  The next part was the riskiest. Bronwyn eased the door aside, edged past the tapestry, and peeked into the room. Malchior was not alone, after all, but the young woman with whom he’d shared the evening was already thoroughly, messily dead. So much for the elf’s carpets, Bronwyn noted grimly. The tawdry, much-patched feminine garments cast over a chair suggested that the woman had been from the Dock Ward, perhaps a tavern wench who’d been lured to the villa by one of Malchior’s men with the promise of easy coin, earned by enduring an old man’s brief embrace. How could she know that the jovial, rotund priest took his pleasure in death and the power that came with the dealing of death?

  Bronwyn’s heart thundered as she drew her knife and waited. She watched as the priest poured himself a glass of deep red wine from a silver decanter and raised it to the dead woman in salute. He sipped, closing his eyes as if savoring a pleasant memory. Then, humming lightly, he sauntered toward the bath—and past the tapestry.

  She leaped out of her hiding place and kicked out hard. Her booted foot all but disappeared into the vast, fleshy belly, but the shot had the desired effect. Malchior wheezed like a bellows and went down.

  Bronwyn seized a handful of his hair and dragged his head back. Stepping behind him, she placed her knife hard against his throat. “Shout out and you’re dead,” she informed him in a low, furious tone.

  It took Malchior a few minutes to marshal his facility for speech, but when he did reply it was with admirable aplomb. “I am quite capable of discerning the obvious,” he wheezed out. “Speak your mind. My bath is cooling. Or better yet, you may disrobe and join me.”

  She almost had to admire the man’s gall. “The obvious question, then, is this: why did you try to take me the other night? Was it another of your games?”

  “A pleasant thought, but no,” the priest replied. His voice was stronger now, but there was fear in his eyes as he noted the fury on Bronwyn’s face. “Not a game. I wouldn’t dishonor you with trivial matters. You are not some tavern wench, to be lightly used and easily discarded.”

  “I’m flattered. What, then?”

  He lifted his hands, palms up. “It was nothing personal. I am of the Zhentarim. You are the daughter of a sworn enemy of the Zhentarim. A man who wishes to live long does not leave dangerous whelps to grow fangs and to scent the trail of vendetta.”

  Bronwyn froze. Nothing, nothing that she had ever seen or experienced, nothing that could have come out of this terrible man’s warped and evil imagination, could have stunned her as did those few simple words: You are the daughter of … someone.

  “Who?” she demanded urgently. “Who is your enemy?”

  The priest laughed, sending ripples undulating through his rolls of flesh. “My dear, I am a priest of Cyric. I have more enemies than this whore had fathers.”

  The sly emphasis he gave to the last word was nearly Bronwyn’s undoing. Malchior had toyed with her. He was doing it still. She looked at the knife she held at his throat and longed to pull it back hard and deep. Yet if she struck, she would never find the answer she had spent twenty long years seeking. She took a steadying breath and tamped down her anger.

  “Tell me my father’s name. Tell me, and I’ll let you live.”

  “Promise made, promise kept?” he mocked her. “Where is my necklace?”

  “That was none of my doing,” she hissed. “As you yourself say, a priest of Cyric has many enemies.” A new threat occurred to her. “You handled the amber. I wonder what interesting secrets a skilled mage could discern from the echoes your magic left behind.”

  That thought stole the smugness from Malchior’s eyes, if just for a moment. “And this necklace. Is it now in the possession of such a mage?”

  “It could be. It was given back to me, but I’d be happy to part with it for a good cause.”

  Malchior considered this. “I will give you your father’s name, if you keep the amber in your possession for, say, three moon cycles.”

  “Done.”

  “You may find this information amusing, given your, shall we say, resourceful methods of doing business,” the priest began slyly.

  “Out with it!”

  “Oh, very well,” he said, pouting. “I’m getting a crick in my neck anyway, the way you’re holding my head back. Not that you are unpleasant to look at, but perhaps you might release your grip on my hair? And this knife is most uncomfortable—”

  “Speak!”

  The priest tsked at her impatience. “You are the oldest and only surviving daughter of Hronulf Caradoon, a paladin of Tyr. A knight of some sort or other, I believe.”

  Through the daze that enveloped her, Bronwyn felt herself nod slowly. That name stirred long-forgotten memories, and images that she could not quite conjure—like dreams, forgotten past retrieval. The enormity of it dazzled her. Her father had a name. She had a name!

  She eased her knife away from the priest’s throat. Then she flipped her hand, palm up, and drove the hilt of the knife hard into Malchior’s temple.

  His eyes rolled back, showing the whites, and his body sagged forward. Bronwyn released her grip on his hair, and he fell facedown onto the carpet he’d ruined with the tavern wench’s blood.

  Bronwyn cautiously stooped and placed her fingers just below the man’s ear. Life still beat in him. He would awaken far too soon, to do more evil, but that was the deal she had made. His life, and the promise that whatever secrets he had inadvertently confided to the amber necklace would be kept from prying eyes.

  Promise made, promise kept.

  She rose and slipped back behind the tapestry. She would leave by a different path from the one she had taken in, but this first step was the same. As she made her way through the escape route her elf associate had carefully marked out, Bronwyn tried not to regret what she had done. She kept her promises, whether made to man or monster. It made good sense. Even if a person was totally lacking in honor, that did not render him incapable of recognizing and appreciating honor in others. She did well—for herself, her clients, and the Harpers—because people knew her reputation and were willing to deal with her. But there was another reason for this stern policy, one even more important and deeply personal. If once, just once, she allowed herself to break the primary rule that guided her path, would she be any different from the people with whom she dealt?

  A new voice in her mind—new, yet disturbingly familiar—added a quiet addendum. And if she broke the rules, could she truly be a paladin’s daughter?

  Four

  Ebenezer stalked down the river path, as stealthy as one of Tarlamera’s cats. Most humans he knew thought dwarves were about as subtle as an avalanche, but the truth was, any dwarf worth navel lint could travel his tunnels as silently as an elf walked the forest.

  For that reason and a host of others, what happened next was downright embarrassing. One moment Ebenezer was walking along behind the t
hree humans, well out of range of their torchlight and their limited vision. The next, he was netted like a fish.

  The heavy ropes thumped down on him, hard enough to knock him on his backside. With a craftsman’s instinctive appreciation for made things, Ebenezer noted that the net was strong and heavily weighted along the edge, then threaded through with another rope like a drawstring on a leather coin bag. Ebenezer was hard pressed, though, to imagine humans strong enough to draw it shut. He looked up through the web of rope and saw the pair of grinning half-orcs on the ledge above. One of them raised his hand to his nose in a tauntingly obscene gesture, and then the two of them began to haul him up.

  The first jerk swept the rope drawstring underneath him and toppled him over. Angry now, the dwarf reached for his hunting knife and began to saw at the net. One strand pinged open, then another. He was almost within reach of the half-orcs when the net gave way. Ebenezer wriggled through the opening and fell heavily to the stone path below.

  The impact of dwarf meeting stone rumbled through the cavern. The humans turned and lifted inquisitive eyes to the ledge above. The half-orcs shouted out a warning and began to scramble down the sheer stone wall toward their prey.

  Ebenezer whirled, axe in hand, to face the approaching humans and their half-ore henchmen. The eager grin on his face faded as his eyes fell on the one holding the torch. He was a tall man, wearing a short purple and black robe. His shaved head was as bald as the skull emblazoned on his oversized medallion. Ebenezer knew that symbol and didn’t much like it. A priest. Men, he could fight, but add a lying coward of a human god into the mix, and suddenly Ebenezer didn’t much like his odds. But there was no time to consider the matter. The half-orcs finished their climb and came at him, weapons in hand.

  For many moments the ring of steel against mithral rang loud over the spring song of the river. Then another sound edged into Ebenezer’s consciousness, a low, ominous chanting. Dread seized him, and he flailed frantically in an effort to cut down the fight and get to the priest before it was too late.