Thornhold - Elaine Cunningham [129]
Bronwyn listened as he gave her directions to the monastery of Tyr and a description of what she would find there. “That’s two days’ ride,” she calculated, her face troubled. “I hope Alice won’t mind looking out for Cara.”
A hint of suspicion edged into the archmage’s eyes. “This child. What is she to you?”
“She’s a stray, like me,” Bronwyn said lightly.
“Do you plan to adopt her?”
She sighed, her face wistful. “I wouldn’t mind-she’s a dear little thing-but she has a father.”
Khelben considered this. Bronwyn wondered if he was comparing Cara’s face to hers and seeing the resemblance. “She is kin to me,” Bronwyn admitted. “She says her father’s name is Doon. I have heard him called by another name.”
“Dag Zoreth,” Khelben said flatly.
Bronwyn blinked, startled but not really surprised to hear that Khelben knew of this. “Yes. Who is he?” she said urgently.
The archmage picked up a tome bound in green leather and put it back on the shelf, unopened. Fidgeting, perhaps? marveled Bronwyn, who had never thought to ascribe such simple mortal failings to the archmage.
“Dag Zoreth is a strifeleader… a priest of Cyric. Until lately, he served Darkhold as a war cleric,” Khelben said bluntly. “He is also your brother.”
Bronwyn sat down hard. “My brother,” she echoed.
“Yes. You knew him as Brandon. He took the name Dag Zoreth shortly after he was abducted.”
“Brandon,” she murmured. “Bran.” An image came to her: a small, pale face, narrow and intense, capped by hair the color of a raven’s wing. He was a presence both fiercely beloved and vaguely feared. Bran and Bron, they’d called each other. Yes. It came to her again-not quite a memory; but at least the shadow of one.
She had a brother.
The thought struck her again, this time hard enough to hurt.
“It appears that your family has access to considerable power,” Khelben continued. “Dag Zoreth wants that power. So do the paladins. This might be considered heresy in some circles, but I would no sooner see one side get their hands on it than the other.”
“And Cara and I are in the middle,” Bronwyn murmured. “You are in a most delicate position,” he agreed, “a fulcrum between the Zhentarim and the Order of the Knights of Samular.”
She gave him a rueful smile. “Not exactly what I signed up for when I pledged to protect the Balance.”
“Nevertheless, it is the task that has come to you,” Khelben said with a wry smile. “You are well suited for it. As a finder of lost antiquities, you must find three rings that once belonged to Samular and his brother and bring them back to safe keeping.”
Bronwyn rose, her eyes intent upon Khelben’s face. “Why?”
To her surprise, he didn’t seem to find her question impertinent. “The rings are but part of the puzzle. There is a larger artifact, a power of some sort that the three rings together can trigger. This you must recover.”
She thought it over and decided to speak the truth. “I already have two of the rings. One was given me by my father, the other Cara wears.”
The archmage nodded as if he had expected to hear this. “I suppose I cannot persuade you to yield the rings into my keeping. Would you at least consider leaving the child behind? There are few places more secure that Blackataff Tower. Laeral seems quite taken with her, and I am sure she would not mind tending her until your return.”
Bronwyn’s eyes narrowed withsuspicion. “This seems too neatly planned. You knew of her, too.”
“Not until this moment,” Khelben said plainly. “I had no knowledge of the child’s heritage, and I would not have known her for who she is had I not seen the two of you together. Only then did I look for the ring and note it on her hand. But consider this: if one man can discern this resemblance and see the ring she wears for what it is, so can another.”
Bronwyn’s shoulders rose and fell in a sigh as she accepted the truth in the archmage’s words. Poor Cara had been tossed around like a