Thornhold - Elaine Cunningham [102]
“It is reasonable,” Danilo said. “What that power might be, I do not know, but I think I can tell you how the third ring came to be lost.”
He lay the book open on the table before the archinage. “This is a new-made copy, not more than five years old, of a very old lore book. The original was copied several times before over the years, but the scribes and artists were among the finest of their times, and I believe the reproduction is true. Look closely at this etching.”
The archmage bent over the desk and studied the page. Danilo leaned over his shoulder and gazed at the drawing he had nearly committed to memory It was an exceptionally well drawn picture of a battle’s aftermath, rendered with an accuracy that suggested that the artist had not only been present, but had possessed some skill or enchantment that enabled him to capture the moment with a near-magical precision. In the background was a stone stronghold, two towers surrounded by a stout, curving curtain wall. The doors were open, indicating that the fortress had already been taken. The stonework was sharp of edge and unworn by time. The terrain was rough and hilly, and seabirds wheeled overhead. Here and there about the outer wall lay fallen men, arrows bristling from their chests or throats. These unfortunates wore chain mail of larger, coarser links than had been in use for centuries, and wore crude helmets of a type not seen in many years. In the picture’s foreground was a young man, his white cloak and robe deeply stained with his own blood. He lay supported in the arms of the burly knight who crouched beside him, and whose face was marked by deep grief. The two men were recognizable as brothers or at least near kin, though they were in many ways very different. The wounded man was young, slight, and small of stature. His face was narrow, his prematurely white hair dipped in the center of his forehead into a pronounced inverted peak, and his gesturing hands had long, supple fingers. He wore a single ring on the index finger of his left hand.
Danilo marked the sudden flash of recognition, quickly covered, that entered the archmage’s eyes. “Do you know him?” the bard asked.
“I did. Or thought I did. That was many years ago,” Khelben said shortly. “It is not a tale I wish to relate, so do not bother to ask.”
It was rare that the archmage was so blunt. Clearly, this old wound had healed badly.
“Note those hands,” he said, pointing to the dying wizard- for wizard he certainly was. That distinctive gesture, frozen in time by an artist who most likely did not understand what he recorded, was part of a long, difficult, and dire spell. A spell born of unquenchable pride and ambition, and a last recourse for a dying wizard who was not content to yield to death.
Khelben’s eyes widened as the implication of that gesture struck him. He shot a concerned glance over his shoulder at his nephew. “How could you know what this means? What in nine hells possessed you to learn that spell?”
“Curiosity,” Danilo assured him. “Not intent. I wished to know how such a thing might be done, but I have no wish to experience it myself.”
“Good.” Khelben expelled a long, shaky breath. “You are trouble enough as you are now.”
“But you see my point.”
“Indeed I do,” the archmage said grimly, “and I believe I know where the third ring may be found. Unfortunately, Bronwyn is the only person alive who has a chance of retrieving it.”
Ten
On the morning of their third day at sea, Bronwyn awoke to the sound of angry voices on the deck above. She groaned and rolled out of her hammock, placing her hands on the small of her back as she straightened up. As she had expected, Ebenezer’s hammock was already empty.
Bronwyn could barely stand straight without banging her head on the low ceiling beams. With four paces, she could easily cross the cabin she shared with her dwarven “partner.” Even so, they were traveling in comparative luxury. In the identical cabin across the narrow walkway that