Thornhold - Elaine Cunningham [164]
He could use that, Dag thought, striving mightily for detachment. If she was so attached to Cara, she might be willing to do nearly anything for the girl. Their mother had died protecting her brood. Let us see, he mused, if Gwenidale’s daughter had inherited her mother’s heart as well as her face.
Dag stepped forward, so that he was in full view of the riders who waited outside the gate. “State your name, and your purpose,” he called down.
Pain, sharp and stabbing and insistent, thrummed along Algorind’s temples. He shaded his eyes and tilted back his head to look up at the wall. There was no doubt in his mind who the speaker was. Evil emanated from the man in waves, Algorind silently prayed for strength and for the shield needed to hold back evil’s power long enough to defeat it.
The woman beside him suffered no apparent ill effects. In fact, she looked disturbingly at home, and a small smile curved her lips.
“Ask Cara who I am,” she tossed back.
There was a moment’s silence. “Very good, sister. You say much in a few words, but you have answered only one of my questions. What do you seek here?”
Bronwyn slid a quick glance at Algorind and nodded. That was the signal they had agreed upon. They dismounted and walked together toward the walls. Praise be to Tyr, his mental shields held, and the pain caused by proximity with evil did not intensify.
“I am a merchant,” Bronwyn called up. “I have learned that there is nothing that cannot be bought, if the price is high enough.”
Algorind marveled at her calm. She stood easily, her head cocked and her hands resting lightly on her hips. One would think that bartering for a child’s life meant nothing to her.
“Your terms?” the priest called down. There was a hint of amusement in his voice that Algorind found more chilling than shrieking rage.
“Simple enough. I want Cara. In exchange, I will give you all three rings of Samular and the powerful artifact they command. What you chose to do with them is no concern to me.”
This betrayal smote Algorind with an icy fist. “Do not!” he protested, utterly aghast at this revelation of her true, base nature.
Bronwyn turned and gave him a small, cool smile.
He reached for his sword, but it was too late. The massive door swung open, and a score of Zhentish soldiers surrounded them. They swarmed him, pushing him roughly through the gates and toward whatever fate this treacherous woman had in mind for him.
Nineteen
Dag hurried down the gatehouse stairs as Bronwyn and the captive paladin entered the courtyard. He smiled and strode forward to reclaim his heritage at last.
“Hello, Bron,” he said, voicing the almost-forgotten nickname with a faint smile.
“Bran?’ She stood staring at him, her eyes huge and her face a canvas awash with more emotions than he could name. “I suddenly remember… so much?’
As did he. Bron and Bran, they had called each other. Nearest in age, if not in disposition, they were intense friends and foes during childhood. Images, fleeting and bittersweet, assailed him.
She took a step forward and held out a hand in an unthinking gesture. He took it in both of his own. “You’ve made an offer, but I would like you to reconsider it. You could stay here, if you wished, with Cara and me.”
Her large brown eyes focused on him and went utterly cold. She snatched back her hand. “tinder the same roof as my fathers murderer? Not a chance. Give me Cara, and I’ll go.”
He refused to let her response sting. “Not quite yet. There is the matter of the rings and the artifact,” he reminded her then tsked lightly. “Same old Bron. Hoarding all the toys.” Dag understood the undeniable charm of memory and he wielded like a sword his knowledge that he once had been the person that Bronwyn loved above all others.
She shook her head, refusing to succumb. “I want to see Cara,” Bronwyn said adamantly.