Thornhold - Elaine Cunningham [111]
And on one of them, she wore a very familiar ring.
Bronwyn’s eyes widened in shock. Her heart thudded painfully, then picked up the beat at a quickened pace. The child’s ring was golden, and richly carved with distinctive, mystic designs. Bronwyn had one just like it in her safe back in Curious Past.
“That’s a very pretty ring,” she said, pointing. “May I see it?”
Cara snatched her hand back and hid it behind her. “My father said no stranger was to look at it, and I was to give it to no one but family. And you can’t take it from me, you know. The bad men tried,” she said, pointing to the deck. “It won’t come off unless I take it off myself.”
This was news to Bronwyn. She wondered if the ring her father had given her would display a similar magical loyalty. But that thought came and went, overwhelmed by one of much greater importance. Cara’s ring was identical to her own. Hronulf had referred to the ring as a family heirloom, meant to be worn only by the blood descendants of the great paladin Samular Caradoon. Once more Bronwyn’s eyes went wide.
“What did you say your name was?”
“Cara,” the girl said with a hint of impatience. “Caradoon.”
Eleven
Dag Zoreth had been to Waterdeep only once before, and the proximity of so many enemies of the Zhentarim left him uncharacteristically edgy. He waited until the maidservant shut the door behind her, then he slid the stout oaken bolt firmly into place. Since one could never be too careful, he walked around the sumptuous chamber, checking for magical spying devices and chanting softly as he sought out any invasive magic.
There was none to find. The Gentle Mermaid, a festhall and tavern in the heart of the staid North Ward, was renowned for its discretion. Private rooms were precisely that, and in this magic-rich city, that was rare enough. The other rare things that crowded the chamber were merely pleasant extras.
There was a fine writing table and chair of polished Chultan teak, a large bed heaped with silken pillows in bright rare shades of yellow and blue, velvet draperies and fine tapestries to keep out the chill, a washbasin and pitcher of delicate porcelain, a small table upon which was laid out silver goblets and a bottle of wine, as well as a tray of small savory bites and another of sweet pastries. Dag missed none of this, for he had a keen appreciation for luxury. As he sampled a small wedge of herb-scented cheese, he vowed to have such amenities brought to Thornhold, to soften and brighten the stark quarters of the former paladins.
But at the moment, Dag Zoreth had another, more immediate task to tend. He took a small dark globe from its hiding place in the folds of his cloak and settled down into the cushioned chair. Holding the globe before him on his palm, he stared intently into its depths.
At his command, purple flames burst into life within the globe. Dag knew from experience what this would do to the man who received the message. The magical summons would bring cold, searing pain that would last until the man found a private place and took the corresponding globe into his own hand.
It did not surprise Dag that he did not have long to wait. Sir Gareth Cormaeril, for all his courtly airs and sanctimonious pronouncements, had a keen instinct for self-preservation. In mere moments the paladin’s lean, dignified face appeared in the globe, looking rather incongruous against the background of sinister purple fire.
“You wished to speak with me, Lord Zoreth? Is there some problem that requires my attention?”
“No, I was merely overwhelmed with desire for the pleasure of your company,” Dag said coldly. “What is occurring in Tyr’s temple? The place is teaming with paladins!”
“They prepare to march on Thornhold,” Sir Gareth responded, forthrightly enough. “Surely you did not think that your