Thornhold - Elaine Cunningham [148]
The blood rose swirling into the air, taking on the shape of a slender, furious elven woman. The image of Ashemmi floated before him, clad in a gown a shade deeper than her usual crimson.
It occurred to Dag suddenly that he was still on his knees. Quickly he rose to his feet and stared down the apparition. “You take a fearful chance, interrupting a ritual to Cyric,” he warned her.
“I felt the magic and followed it!” the image of Ashemmi snapped. “Do not think for a moment that I cannot find you, and that I wifi not!”
A shimmer of dread rippled through Dag as he wondered if the elf had also found Cara. But no, she would have said so if she had. There was no tie binding her and her child, and her seeking magic did not know the paths that belonged to Cara alone. But Dag she knew to the depths of his black heart, as he knew her.
“What do you want, Ashemmi?” He tried to imbue his words with a weary patience.
“The child!”
Not my child, Dag noticed, or even our child. A tool, a weapon. That was all. Cara deserved better.
“She is safe,” Dag said, and believed it to be so. His best intelligence indicated that the child was being kept in Blackstaff Tower, and he was inclined to believe that she was still there. Still, he wanted to see for himself No mere scrying device could pierce that fastness-which was why he had decided to seek a god’s power.
“Safe?” shrieked the apparition. “I have learned that she was apprehended from a southbound slave ship! Do not talk to me of safety.”
This startled Dag. Instantly, he knew who the culprit must be. It would appear, he mused, that he owed his sister a debt of gratitude. It was she who had thwarted this plan and brought Cara back to Waterdeep.
“I had nothing to do with that,” Dag assured Ashemmi’s magical image. “I have no intention of bringing harm to my own child.”
She sniffed. “It does not matter what your intentions are. After a certain level, there is no real difference between evil and ineptitude. I want her, Dag. Find her and bring her to me.”
“You relinquished your rights to the child,” he protested.
“I reclaim them. When you find her, she will be brought to Darkhold. You can bring her, or she will be taken from you. But mark me: the child will be mine!”
The apparition disappeared as suddenly as a lightning bolt. Blood splashed back into the bowl, splattering the floor and the priest.
Dag lifted his eyes to the symbol of Cyric. It seemed to him that the skull had a watchful mien, rather like a wild cat considering the moment to pounce, but the godly manifestation gave no sign of Cyric’s displeasure. Strife, intrigue, illusion-all these things were present in the tableau he and Ashemmi had just presented. Cyric must have found it quite diverting.
But Dag was taking no chances. He left the chapel at once and sent his most expendable servants to clean up after the failed ritual.
* * * * *
When the sounds of battle had died away, Bronwyn unbolted the shutter and looked out over the village. A small cry escaped her at the terrible destruction. Four houses had been reduced to smoldering circles of foundation stone. From this height, they looked like large and very sad campfires. Doors and windows and shutters had been broken, and goods from households and stores lay crushed and scattered in the street. Much worse were the terrible injuries dealt those slumped onto the street, and worse still those who no longer moved.
“Cara…“ began Bronwyn.
“I want to find Ebenezer,” the child insisted, sensing what was coming. “I want to see that he is all right.”
She couldn’t deny the child this, nor could she leave her here alone. “Come, then,” she said, and led the way down into the street.
Bronwyn almost stumbled over the paladin. He had taken terrible head wounds, and her gaze didn’t linger on his face, but there was no mistaking that blue and white tabard. A wave of relief swept over her, only slightly darkened by guilt. It did not seem right, to be glad that a “good man”-for he would certainly be regarded as such-had been brutally slain.
They found Ebenezer at