Thornhold - Elaine Cunningham [140]
Laharin rose and tucked her hand into his arm. Together they strolled through the fortress. He showed her the training field, the barracks where the young men slept, stables filled with beautiful horses, armories well stocked with nearly every weapon Bronwyn could name. There was a library with some old books and maps. “You may read anything here, at your leisure,” Laharin assured her. “All the stories and lore must be passed to your sons. Do you remember hearing the tales?”
“Vaguely,” she admitted. “Just the shape and rhythm of them.” Her eyes followed a thin boy who bustled down the hall toward them. She judged him to be a page by the cut of his tunic, and the pile of linen in his arms. He was thin and boasted a mop of bright auburn hair and a liberal sprinkling of freckles on his face and bare arms. He looked all of eight years old.
Laharin followed her gaze, noting the puzzlement in her eyes. “The lads who wish to enter Tyr’s service come to us before they have reached ten winters, and stay usually ten years.”
“So young…”
He gave her a look that was both stern and sympathetic. “It is the way of men to dedicate their lives to the service of Tyr. Women, I suspect, have a harder task. They must dedicate their sons.”
Bronwyn murmured something suitably docile and followed the knight down a long, narrow flight of stone steps into what appeared to be a dungeon. There were a few cells, none of which were occupied, and at the end of the hall another flight leading further down. Laharin took a torch from a wall bracket and bid her follow.
“This tunnel leads to the kitchen cellars,” he explained.
She pointed to a low, curved wooden door. The latch was chained and locked, rusted almost to dust. “What is that?”
“Nothing of great consequence. It is a tunnel leading to the old tower outside the walls. No one has used it for centuries.”
This struck Bronwyn as very strange thinking indeed. “You are not afraid that someone will gain access to the monastery through the tower?”
“No,” he said shortly. He squared his shoulders and smoothed the frown from his face with visible effort. “The tower is clearly visible from the guard tower. No one has gone in or out for centuries.”
“Then why-”
“It is part of our heritage,” he broke in. “Few know this story, but you should hear it. The tower once belonged to the brother of Samular, a wizard of great power known as Renwick ‘Snowcloak’ Caradoon. It was Samular’s wish that a training monastery be built around that tower, and that it remain undisturbed for all time in honor of his brother, who died in battle as bravely as any knight.”
At least, that was Samular’s story, Bronwyn thought as she recalled what Khelben had told her about this place, and what she should look for. “That is an inspiring story. Samular knew the value of family,” she said, arranging her face in a wide-eyed, guileless expression.
Laharin gave her an odd look, as if he was suddenly considering how much Bronwyn truly knew about her family’s value. The moment passed swiftly, chased by a glimmer of self-reproach. He was not a man, Bronwyn noted with a touch of guilt, who was often or easily suspicious. She truly hated abusing his good will. On the other hand, she was not ready to turn herself and the power of her family heritage- whatever that might be-over to the order.
She spent a pleasant day with the knight, but begged off dinner by claiming travel weariness. She waited until the paladins and priests were at their evening devotions. Then she sneaked through the courtyard and back into the keep. Khelben had bid her look for a tower outside the main fortress. That old tunnel was her best way in. She took a torch from the upper level, as Laharin had done, and made her way to the low wooden portal.
Breaking the rusted lock was easy. Three sharp taps with the hilt of her knife, and the old chain fell away. Bronwyn crept through, one hand sweeping the air before her to tear away the tangle of spider webs that curtained the place like mist. The floor was alive, too; beetles and worse crunched underfoot as she made