Thornhold - Elaine Cunningham [94]
The priest chuckled at this tactic. “Again, well said!”
“Why were some of Hronulf’s children taken?” Dag persisted.
Malchior sighed and flapped away a fly that buzzed about his horse’s ears. “That I cannot tell you. It is the nature of the Zhentarim that one hand does not always know what the other is doing. There are many ambitious men among us. Who knows? Perhaps there was intent to seek ransom, or vengeance. Who is to say what is in the heart of any Zhentilar?”
Again, Dag noted grimly, a question evaded. “And how did you come to learn of my family’s history and to connect me, a child lost some twelve years by the time I came to your attention, to Hronulf of Tyr?”
“Ah, that. I have made a study of the Caradoon family, you see. Sometime I must show you the old portrait of your ancestor, Renwick Caradoon. You are enough like him to be his son, perhaps even his twin. I saw the resemblance instantly when you were brought to Zhentil Keep for testing as a lad, and I made a point to look into your history. Tracing your path was no easy thing, I assure you. Years passed before I was convinced that you were indeed the child stolen from the Jundar’s Vale and lost by the Zhentish soldiers who took you.”
Dag listened carefully, but habit prompted him to study the path ahead, the seemingly endless stretch of hard-packed dirt shaded and scented by the stand of giant cedars growing on the eastern side. He absently signaled to his captain and pointed to the trees, thus indicating the need for additional vigilance. The man saluted and sent a pair of men off into the trees to scout ahead for possible ambush.
“You have grown quite practiced in the art of command,” Malchior observed. “Perhaps there is something of Hronulf of Tyr in you, after all.”
Dag’s eyes narrowed. His first impulse was to believe the remark a deliberate taunt. Then, upon consideration, he realized that Malchior had at last given him the answer to his question-albeit in the roundabout manner that the priest favored. “And that is why you sought me out,” Dag summarized bluntly.
“There is power in the bloodline of Samular,” the priest agreed, “as I have said before.”
“Then why not Hronulf himself?”
Malchior scoffed. “I would have a better chance of turning the tide itself than bending a man such as Hronulf Caradoon to my purpose. No, the only way to deal with a noble paladin is the manner that you chose-and no doubt executed yourself.”
Dag stiffened. “I did not mention Hronulf’s fate.”
“You did not have to. I trained you well, and we both know that only fools leave the destruction of an enemy to even a trusted underling. The important thing now is that Hronulf’s power will be yours. When you discover what that is, and how to use it, then I trust that your gain wili also be mine.”
“You are a trusting man,” Dag said with heavy. “I suppose that is why you also seek my sister. You are, perhaps, placing bets on more than one horse?”
Malchior laughed heartily, slapping one fleshy thigh with his hand. “Alas, betting upon racing horses is one vice I have not yet had occasion to develop. But you are astute. I would like to have this woman under the influence of the Zhentarim. Yours, mine-it makes no real difference. Are we not like father and son?”
An interesting comparison, Dag thought wryly, considering the history of betrayals that lay between him and his blood father. But Dag carefully considered the older priest’s words, reading between and behind them for the true meaning. Perhaps his first conclusion was off the mark. Perhaps Malchior did not need him or Bronwyn. Perhaps he needed them both.
The family rings. There were two of them, that he knew of. One was on his daughter’s hand, the other most likely in his sister’s possession. But the inscription on the ring he found in his ruined village indicated that there were three and that when they came together, “evil would tremble.”
The third ring, then. Three rings, in the hands of three of