Thornhold - Elaine Cunningham [20]
“Yes,” Dag murmured. “What do you suggest?”
Malchior’s eyebrows rose. It had been some years since his former student had asked for advice. “I have given into your hands the man who betrayed your father, and you. Use him. Let him lure your sister to a place where you can, shall we say, exert a degree of brotherly influence.”
The young priest nodded. “Well said. And what, if I may be so bold, do you hope to gain from any of this?”
“Gain? We have known each other for many years. You have been like a son,” Malchior began. When Dag began to chuckle, the priest gave up the attempt and shrugged. “There is power in your family. I don’t understand its precise nature. That is for you to discover. But I trust that you will do so and share your discovery with me.”
“Really?” Dag imbued the single word with a great deal of skepticism. Malchior was not a man to be trusted, and he assumed that all other men dealt as he did.
“Let us say that there is power enough for both. I desire your success with all my heart, for it is a stepping-stone to my own.”
That, Dag could believe and understand. “Very well. When Bronwyn is under my influence, when I understand the scope of my heritage, then you and I will speak again.”
“I am satisfied to wait.” Suddenly the priest’s jovial expression disappeared, and his eyes were as flat and hungry as a troll’s. “You understand, of course, the price of failure.”
“Of course,” Dag said smoothly. “Have I not inflicted it often enough? Ask any failed man under my command the price of his failure-but first, prepare to summon his spirit.”
Malchior blinked, then began to laugh. “Well enough. A drink then, to seal our agreement.” He linked his arm with Dag’s, and together they strolled back toward the darkness of the villa.
* * * * *
“Forgive the intrusion,” Khelben Arunsun said in a deep, faintly accented voice, “but circumstances demanded that we meet and speak. Please, sit down.”
Still too dazed for thought, Bronwyn sank down on the nearest available seat-the old sea chest that held her linens. The archmage took the chamber’s only chair. Staff in hand, he looked uncomfortably like a magistrate about to pass judgment on some unknown crime.
“It has come to my attention that you have accepted a commission from a priest of Cyric, a man known as Malchior.”
How had he learned of this so soon? Bronwyn shook off this second surprise and marshaled her wits. “That is so, Lord Arunsun.”
“What precisely was your thinking in this matter? Need I remind you that conspiring with the Zhentarim is hardly an approved Harper activity?”
“True enough, my lord. But it is part of my job. I was recruited by the Harpers for my contacts. A wide range of customers seek my services.”
“And simple prudence dictates that you set limits. Correct me if I err, but was it not your intention to deliver gemstones containing significant magical power to Malchior of Cyric?”
“Yes, but-”
“What do you know of the man? What is the nature of your dealings with him?”
Before Bronwyn could form a defense, a tap at her open lintel distracted both her and her visitor. A familiar, fair-haired man lounged against the door post. He held up one hand to display a length of golden beads and silver filigree.
Bronwyn’s eyes widened at the sight of the amber necklace. For a moment, she forgot the daunting presence of the archmage. “Damn it, Dan, what are you doing with that?”
“I should like to know that, myself,” Khelben intoned in a grim voice.