Thornhold - Elaine Cunningham [92]
“Yes,” Dag said coolly. There had been little enough to see. Three or four lore books, recounting stories of past glories attributed to the Knights of Samular, and a few blackened, curling bits of parchment that he had found in the hearth fire next to his father’s charred heart.
The older priest rubbed his hands together in his eagerness. “I would be most interested in seeing any papers you have.”
Dag shrugged and began to lead the way up to the tower. He had claimed the commander’s quarters as his own, of course, and in them he kept the few goods that Hronulf of Tyr had left behind. “There is not much to see,” he cautioned.
“What of treasure? Some holds, even those of religious orders, have a considerable hoard. Silver reliquaries holding the finger bone of some hero or saint, ancient weapons, an occasional artifact. Even lesser treasures, such as jewelry.”
Malchior’s voice dropped on the last observation, becoming a subtle note softer, more casual. Dag’s quick ear marked the difference and the probable reason for it. Malchior knew of the ring.
As Dag showed Malchior up to the tower chamber, he pondered what to do about the ring. Say little, he decided, in hope that Malchior would reveal more of the rings’ true purpose. So Dag waited until Malchior was seated behind Hronulf’s-no, Dag reminded himself, his-writing table. He noted the open greed in the older priest’s eyes as Dag placed a pile of lore books before him. Perhaps the rings were not the treasure that Malchior held most dear.
“You mentioned jewelry. You were speaking, of course, of the ring of Samular that Hronulf wore,” Dag said coolly. “Regrettably, it was not on Hronulf’s hand when he died. My sister arrived before me, it would appear, and made off with my inheritance. She willbe found.”
The old priest looked up, his eyes shrewdly measuring his former student. “And the other rings?”
“I will find them, as well,” Dag said confidently. No need to tell Malchior that one was already in his possession. He waited until Malchior opened one of the books and began to leaf through it.
“How long will you be able to stay?” Dag asked.
“Not long,” the priest murmured in a distracted tone. “This is most interesting. Most interesting. Three or four days’ study should suffice, unless, of course, you can see your way clear to loan me these books.”
“By all means,” Dag said quickly-too quickly, judging from the shrewdly calculating look that Malchior sent him. The priest always suspected, and rightly so, that every other priest of Cyric knew more on any matter than he was willing to reveal.
At that highly inopportune moment, there came a sharp knock from the open door. Dag glanced over, and his throat clenched with apprehension as he recognized the captain of the escort he had sent for his daughter The man’s too stiff posture and the tight, grim lines of his face announced more clearly than words that the news was not good.
“Excuse me,” Dag murmured to a very interested Malchior. “Please help yourself to any of the books and papers, and wine as well, if you will.”
He hurried into the hail and shut the door behind him. “Well?” he hissed.
The captain blanched. “Lord Zoreth, there is grave news. When we arrived at the farm, the child was gone. Both the elf and his woman had been slain.”
The sound like a roaring sea rose in Dag’s ears, threatening to engulf him. He summoned all of his iron control and pushed away any response at all to this, the apparent ruin of his dreams. “And then? What did you do?”
“We followed. One man, on horse, headed swiftly toward the city of Waterdeep. We lost the trail once he took to the roads, but his destination was clear enough.” The man stood straighter still. “What would you have us do?”
Dag turned a coldly controlled gaze upon the failed soldier “I would like you to die, slowly and in terrible pain,” he said in an expressionless voice.
Surprise leaped into the man’s eyes, and an uncertainty that suggested he was unsure whether or not his commander was jesting with him. Then the first wave of pain ripped through