Thornhold - Elaine Cunningham [135]
Cara’s jaw dropped, and her eyes rounded in wonder. “You look like magic,” the child pronounced. “And lots of it.”
The mage’s eyes lit with warmth and humor. “And so shall you, Cara. We will have some breakfast, and then we will begin. Would you like that?”
The child was utterly and obviously enchanted. Even so, her eyes slid to Bronwyn’s face, and she bit her lip in indecision. “Yes… “ she said hesitantly.
“And I got a new flitterkitten,” Laeral continued, “just this very morning. She is a very pretty little white kitten with snowy white wings, but she is just learning to fly and she truly needs someone to take care of her.”
This was just the extra bit of inducement that Cara needed. She promptly put out her arms for help. Bronwyn lifted her down from the pack horse, giving Laeral a grateful look over Cara’s brown head.
“We will do just fine here, you and I,” Laeral said as she took the girl’s hand. Noticing how Cara gaped at her glittering rings, she selected a ring that flashed with fire and ice and slid it onto the child’s small hand. Instantly the ring sized itself to fit the tiny finger
Bronwyn nodded in approval, understanding how this would appear to Cara. The child had a ring from her father and knew it to be important; she would view another such gift as a very significant thing. Laeral was apparently as wise and insightful as she was beautiful.
Wrapped in a nearly tangible delight of magic and each other, the two turned and disappeared into the seemingly solid black wall. Neither of them looked back.
Bronwyn sighed again and wiped the back of her hand across her eyes. She swung herself up onto her horse and started out for the Northgate.
They rode in silence for several minutes. Ebenezer glanced over at her. “You look like you got something on your mind.”
She managed a faint smile. “I was just now wishing,” she said softly, “that I had thought to give Cara a ring.”
* * * * *
Beneath the streets of Waterdeep lay a maze of tunnels, and beneath that another and then yet another, layer upon layer of secrets carved deep into mountain stone. Two men strode through one such tunnel, a simple passage that ran between Blackstaff Tower and Piergeiron’s Palace, a tunnel accessible only to the men who ruled in those places. It was by its very nature a lonely place. The only sounds were the drips of water falling from the rounded ceiling, the clicking of their boots upon the stone floor, and the occasional squeaking of rats-creatures that went wherever they pleased, in casual defiance of lordly might.
They walked in silence, their thoughts on the meeting ahead. Khelben Arunsun’s stern face was more solemn than usual, creased with something approaching dread. His nephew thought he understood, at least in part. Such power as the archmage wielded put him on a summit few could hope to climb. But for his lady, Khelben was very much alone, and he carried burdens more diverse and wearisome than most mortals could bear to contemplate. Khelben had lived long and outlived many; lovers, friends, comrades, even his own children. That Danilo could not begin to comprehend-how could any man bear the burden of life, when his own children had long ago turned to dust? He suspected that the archmage was soon to suffer yet another loss, the loss of one of the best and oldest friends remaining to him.
The passage ended at a tightly spiraling stairway. Danilo stepped aside so that Khelben could ascend the stairs first. At the top of the spiral, the archmage tapped at a stout wooden door, a door that, on the other side, was simply not there at all. At Piergeiron