Thornhold - Elaine Cunningham [69]
flag dismissed the guards and shut what was left of the door. When he was alone with his captive, he folded his arms and stared down at him coolly.
“I am a priest,” he said in a coldly controlled tone that revealed none of his wrath, or his elation. “I could heal you. I could stop that pain instantly. I could even offer you protection from the soldiers who stormed your fortress, or a quick death fighting, if you so prefer.”
Hronulf lifted his eyes to Dag’s pale, narrow face. “You have nothing that I could desire.”
“That is not strictly true.” Dag made a quick, complex gesture with both hands, unleashing a spell he had prepared. An illusion rose in the air between them, the glittering image of an ornate golden ring. “Unless I have been misinformed, you want this very much. And it is mine.”
The paladin’s eyes blazed. “You have no right to it!”
“Again, not true. I have every right to the ring.” Dag lifted his chin. “I am your second-born son, whom you named Brandon in honor of my mother’s father. I took the ring from the hand of my brother Byorn, after he fell in a battle he should never have had to fight.”
“Lies!”
“Cannot a paladin discern truth? Test me, and see if there is any deceit in my words.”
Hronulf fixed a searching gaze on the priest. His eyes went bleak as the truth came to him, but his face hardened.
His gaze pointedly swept flag’s black and purple vestments, then fixed upon the symbol engraved on his medallion. “I have no son, Cyricist. My son Byorn died a hero, fighting against the Zhentarim.”
Even though he had expected them, these words struck flag’s heart with painful force. “Did he really? Have you never wondered how the closely held secret of your family’s village reached Zhentarim ears? Or for that matter, how a Zhentilar band managed to unravel the secrets of this fortress? Look, and wonder no more!”
Dag snatched the black globe from its hiding place and held it before his father’s eyes. The purple fire burned high, casting unholy light upon the face of Hronulf’s oldest and most trusted Mend.
“How may I serve you, Lord Zoreth?” inquired the image of Sir Gareth Cormaeril.
Shock, disbelief, and sudden bleak acceptance flashed through Hronulf”s silver-gray eyes. He lifted his gaze to flag’s coldly vindictive face. “Gareth was a good man. To corrupt a paladin is a most grievous evil and a black stain on the souls of all who had a hand in his downfall. You will not find another here who will have aught to do with you, Cyricist.”
With great effort, flag kept his face neutral. “I’ve come to claim my heritage and meet my sister,” he said. “Where is she?”
“This is a fortress of the Knights of Samular. No women reside here.”
“Finally, you speak something resembling truth,” flag said coldly. “But let us not play foolish games. We saw a young woman enter this fortress. We did not see her leave.”
“Nor will you. She is beyond your reach, Cyricist.”
Dag merely shrugged. “For now, perhaps, but the day will come, and soon, when the three rings of Samular are reunited in the hands of three of his bloodline. Tell me what that means. What power will that unleash?”
“It matters not. You do not wear the ring. You cannot,”
“Perhaps not, but my daughter can, and she will do as I tell her. Soon my sister will do the same. As long as I command the power, it matters not whose hands wield it.” The priest unfolded his arms. He held out one hand and took a step forward. “It is time for you to bequeath me my inheritance. The second ring, if you please!”
Pain flared in the paladin’s eyes as his fallen son approached, for the evil of Cyric burned men such as Hronulf as surely and painfully as dragonfire. Dag Zoreth saw this, expected it. Nevertheless, he kicked the regal sword out of Hronulf’s grasp and snatched up the paladin’s hand between both of his own.
“No ring. The other hand, then,” he demanded. In defiant response, Hronulf raised his bloodied fist and spread the fingers so that the priest