Thornhold - Elaine Cunningham [1]
“A paladin’s way is righteous and good,” Renwick taunted softly, in echo of the other’s thoughts. “If you do not stand with him, you are against him.”
He could not deny the truth in this, but felt compelled to add another truth. “So much power cannot be easily contained,” continued the elder mage, a man who, nearly two centuries later would come to be known as Khelben Arunsun. “You will not be able to keep the rings secret forever. Some day they will fall into other hands, and be used for other purposes.”
Again the pale wizard Renwick smiled. “Then it is in your best interest to make certain that this does not occur. Once the tale begins to be told, who knows where it will end?”
One
5 Mirtul, 1368 DR
The young woman, by all appearances a pirate down on her luck, paused at the base of the hill. There was little cover so close to the sea, and the wind that sent her cape whipping about her shoulders brought memories of a winter not long past. The woman cast a quick look over her shoulder to make sure the path behind her was still clear. Assured, she swept aside the dead branches concealing the small opening to a sea cave.
A lone bat darted out of the darkness. She instinctively ducked-a quick, agile motion that sent her long braid of brown hair swinging up to drape over her shoulder. She flipped it back, then took a torch from her pack. A few deft taps of knife against flint produced sparks, then flame. Instantly the stone floor of the cave exploded into life. Rats fled squeaking in alarm, and crabs scuttled away from the sudden burst of light.
“Waterdeep, the City of Splendors,” murmured Bronwyn, her lips curved with affectionate irony. Since taking up residence in the city four years ago, she had spent more time doing business in places like this than she did in her posh shop on the Street of Silver.
There was little splendor in the hills south of the great port city. The tang of the sea hung heavy in the still air, along with the smell of dead fish and the even less pleasant odor of the nearby Rat Hills, a length of shore that served as repository for the city’s garbage. She ducked into the small opening and stood, taking stock of her surroundings. The cave was cold and water was everywhere, dotting the cave floor in dank puddles, drizzling down through the moss and lichen that festooned the walls, and dripping like drool from the fang-shaped rocks hanging down from the ceiling. There would be even more water when the tide came in.
That thought quickened Bronwyn’s step down a steep, uneven path. As she went, she trailed one hand along the damp wall for balance and kept a wary eye on the shadows beyond the circle of her torch’s light. Bats, rats and crabs represented the cream of cave society. She fully expected to encounter worse.
She carefully skirted a broad pool that nearly spanned the stone ledge. Bronwyn hated water, which lent a touch of irony to her seafaring guise.
She lifted her hand to her head to ensure that her rakish scarlet kerchief was still in place and that the cheap bronze hoops evocative of Nelanther pirates were still secured to her ears. This was the Smugglers’ Caves, and as the old saying went, “When in the Coldwood, shiver.” Her years of slavery had taught her that survival meant adapting.
At that moment the path curved sharply. After a few more steps, it opened into a cavern. A crack far overhead let in a bit of light. Bronwyn eyed the ravine that suddenly appeared beside the path, looking like a deep, broad gash in the mountain’s stone heart. At the bottom of the ravine, running swift and deep and eerily silent, was an underground river.