Thornhold - Elaine Cunningham [12]
Three, Dag mused. He knew of only two rings. As the pattern took shape in his mind, he began to understand why Malchior, his mentor, was suddenly so interested in Dag’s family history. It seemed likely to Dag that his childhood memories of the rings’ importance were based on more than legend. If Malchior was nosing about, there was real power to be had. Luckily the old priest knew nothing about the ring. Or perhaps he did; few high-ranking members of the Thentarim were known for altruism. Surely Malchior did not go through the trouble of seeking out Dag’s lost past, and the location of his birth village, just to put his former acolyte’s mind at ease. Well, be that as it may, Malchior would not find him a docile tool, nor would power of any sort leave Dag’s hands without a bloody struggle.
Dag started to slip his family ring onto his index finger, as Byorn had once worn it.
Pain, quick and bright and fierce, lanced through him. Astonished, Dag jerked off the ring. He dashed his rainsoaked hair from his eyes and held the ring out at arm’s length, gazing at it with a mixture of puzzlement and reproach. He was a descendant of Samular-how could the ring turn on him?
The answer came swiftly, borne on a wave of fierce selfanger. He should have seen this coming. He should have known this would happen. The ring had probably been blessed, consecrated to some holy purpose in which he, Dag Zoreth, could have no part. Samular had been a paladin of Tyr; Dag Zoreth was a strifeleader, a priest of Cyric.
On impulse, Dag took the medallion from around his neck, a silver starburst surrounding a tiny, carefully sculpted skull. He undid the clasp with fingers made slippery by mud and rain and his own blood, and then he slipped the ring onto the chain. He did up the clasp and put the medallion back in its proper place over his heart. The ring was hidden securely behind the symbol of Cyric.
Let Tyr-if indeed the god of justice condescended to observe someone such as Dag Zoreth-make of this what he willed.
Dag whistled for his horse and stiffly hauled himself up into the saddle. The return trip would have to be swift, for he could not wear the ring for much longer. It burned him now, even separated from his body by layers of purple and black garments and a light vest of fine elven mail. But there was another who would wear the ring for him, someone as innocent as he himself had been on that long-ago day, when an oak tree had wept crimson leaves over Byorn, the last worthy son of Tyr’s paladin.
Worthy or not, Dag fully intended to use the ring. After all, he was of Samular’s bloodline. He would reclaim his heritage-in his own way, and for his own purposes.
Two
There were other fortresses in the city of Waterdeep that were larger and more impressive, but Blackstaff Tower was without doubt the most secure and unusual fastness in the city.
Danilo Thann was a frequent visitor to the tower, and had been since Khelben Arunsun took him under his stern tutelage some twenty years earlier. Of late, it seemed to Danilo that the archmage’s summons were increasing in frequency, and that the demands he made upon his “nephew” and former student were growing by the day.
Today he walked openly through the invisible doors that allowed passage through the black stone of the courtyard wall, and again into the tower. This much was expected; he then sauntered in through the wooden door of the archmage’s study, not bothering to open the portal and in casual defiance of any wards that might have been placed upon it.
This was a typically arrogant gesture, one that no one else in the city would dare to attempt. Danilo hoped that Khelben perceived these acts as statements of his intention to remain independent of the archmage’s plans for him, but he suspected that this very insouciance was in no small measure the reason for his frequent presence in Blackstaff Tower.
He was late, of course, and he found the archmage in an unusually foul state of mind.