Thornhold - Elaine Cunningham [60]
As she spoke, she studied the old knight’s face. She might not have a paladin’s god-given insight into the minds and hearts of others, but she possessed finely honed powers of observation and instincts that had been right more often than not. So she noted the slow return of color to Hronulf’s face, and the return of light to his eyes. She dared to hope that simple shock, not suspicion, colored his silence.
Hronulf slowly rose to his feet. Bronwyn noticed that though his face was composed and his bearing tall and proud, one white-knuckled hand gripped the back of the chair as if for support-or, perhaps, as a tangible sign that he was not yet ready to let go of the “truth” he had believed for twenty years.
“Of your own will, you would step into the scales of Tyr’s justice?” he murmured.
“I will.”
He nodded thoughtfully and his grip on the chair eased a little. “None but the righteous would make such bold claims. I do not require such tests.”
“But I do,” Bronwyn said urgently. Until this moment, she had not fully realized how desperately she needed to know. “I have long heard that a paladin can discern truth. Will your god tell you if there is truth in the story that brought me here?”
“I can but ask.” The paladin’s eyes grew distant once more, as he sought in prayer a level of insight and enlightenment that only his god could give him.
Moments passed, long moments that were heavy with the weight of Bronwyn’s twenty years of exile. She waited, scarcely breathing, until the unseen vision faded from Hronulf’s eyes, and his gaze once again focused upon her. Bronwyn knew, before a word was spoken, what Tyr’s answer had been.
“Little Bronwyn,” Hronulf murmured, studying her with desperately hungry eyes. “Now that I see the truth of it, I understand that my heart knew you at once. You are the very image of… of your mother.”
This both pleased and saddened Bronwyn. She lifted one hand to her cheek, as if seeking in her own face what she had lost. “I do not remember her.”
Hronulf took a step forward, both hands outstretched. “My poor child. Can you ever forgive me for what you have endured?” he asked, his voice quavering, pleading. “The fault is mine, though I did not lightly let you go. When you were not found among the slain, I… I sought you for many months. I would never have given up… until the day I wept over the remains of a girl child that I believed to be my own.”
His terrible guilt smote her heart, and she took both his hands in hers. “I don’t blame you,” she said hastily. “For many years I’ve been trying to find the truth of my past. There weren’t many paths to follow, and every one ended against an alley wall. I make a living finding lost things, things that most people despair of finding. If I could not fmd my way back to my own past, how could you, who had every reason to believe your quest had ended, be expected to do better?”
Hronulf smiled faintly. “You have a good heart, child, your mother’s heart.”
“Tell me of her,” she urged.
They sat down together, and the paladin began to speak of the past, slowly and with strange awkwardness. At first Bronwyn thought the source of the difficulty was the barrier formed by lost years, but soon she realized that the reason ran deeper still. Hronulf had been seldom at home, and thus he had few memories of her in the scant time they had been a family. He did not know her. She wondered if he could ever have known her better, even if the raid had never occurred.
Not much time passed before he ran out of remembrances. He rose, looking relieved to have some plan of action in mind. “Come,” he said. “I will show you the castle.”
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Ebenezer’s