Thornhold - Elaine Cunningham [19]
Should she bow, flee, or faint?
* * * * *
Two men, both clad in the purple and black of Cyric’s clergy, strolled through the villa’s garden. A bright moon lit the white-pebbled path. Though it was still early spring, the air was scented with the fragrance of a few timid flowers. Three fountains played merrily into tiled pools.
“I have been hearing interesting things about you,” Malchior said, slanting a glance at the man who had been his most talented and promising acolyte.
Dag Zoreth inclined his head in acknowledgment-and evasion. His mentor knew too much about him, had made a study of the family from which Dag had been torn. Some of this information he had recently shared: the location of the village from which Dag had been stolen, the rumors of power inherent in the family bloodline, the current post held by his illustrious father. He often wondered what else Malchior knew. He also wondered how the priest got that livid cut down his left cheek-and he envied the man who had put it there.
“It would appear that you have a more intriguing tale to tell,” Dag commented, raising a finger and tracing a line down his own cheek.
The older priest merely shrugged. “You recently traveled to Jundar’s Hill and rode alone into the foothills along the Dessarin. I am curious, my son, what prompted you to take such chances just to visit the site of your home village?”
So that was it. Word had reached Malchior faster than Dag had expected. “I, too, am curious,” he said. “What you told me of my past intrigued me, but there are still many holes in my story. I sought to fill some of them.”
“And did you?”
“One or two.” Dag turned a stony gaze upon the older priest. “You told me that the raid was the work of an ambitious rival paladin. But the men who attacked were Zhentarim soldiers. Looking back from where I stand, I can see that plainly.”
This clearly took Malchior aback. “How is this possible? You were a child.”
“I know,” Dag said simply. “The matter is between me and my god.”
There was little Malchior would say to counter this pronouncement. For several moments they walked together in silence. “This villa, your new responsibilities,” he began, “these things you have earned. I have something more for you. A gift.” He paused to add weight to the coming words. “You are not the last of Samular’s bloodline. Your sister also survived that raid and is alive and well.”
Dag froze, stunned by this revelation. It did not occur to him to challenge Malchior’s words; indeed, as the realization sank home, he wondered why he should be so surprised. He remembered the Cyric-given vision, the bold and curious little girl diving headlong from the small window to investigate the coming raid. His sister Bronwyn, dimly remembered as the bane of his young existence. Of course. He had been spared-why not the girl?
A sister. He had a sister. Dag was not certain how he felt about this. Vaguely he remembered his father’s deep, disapproving voice lamenting the little girl’s bold ways-and wondering why her older brother was not half so intrepid.
“How is she? Where is she?”
“In Waterdeep,” Malchior answered. He grimaced and touched the livid cut on his face. “And trust me, she does well enough. I met and spoke with her earlier this very night.”
So that was Bronwyn’s work. The years had passed, but still she had the courage to act when Dag held back. This did not please him, but the discomfited expression on Malchior’s wounded face most assuredly did.
“For a paladin’s daughter, she is quick with a knife,” Dag commented with dark amusement. “You are not usually so incautious as to overlook a hidden weapon.”
“A naked woman,” Malchior grumbled, “with a stiletto hidden in her halt Men must be cautious in these treacherous times.”
This time Dag laughed aloud. “Oh, that is priceless! Wouldn’t the great Hronulf be proud?”
The older priest shrugged. “She is an interesting woman, a finder of lost antiquities who has made it her life’s work to collect pieces of the past.