Thornhold (49 page)

Cara, however, was not listening. The little girl stared intently at the wooden door, on the side opposite the hinges. The wood began to smolder and then burst into flame.

“Try again,” she advised, her voice pale from the effort of holding the casting.

But Bronwyn could not get close enough without setting herself afire. She backed off a foot or two and got a firm grip on one of the crossbeams. She let her feet drop and rocked back and forth as she hung over the rapidly advancing paladin. Mustering all her strength, she swung up both feet high over her head and kicked at the burning door.

The hatch flew open. Instantly, Cara released the enchantment and the flames disappeared. Bronwyn worked her way back, hand over hand, and pushed the girl up to the platform, then rolled out herself

She slammed the ruined door down and looked for something to bar it. Cara snatched up a ballista bolt, staggering under its weight. Together, they worked it through the iron latch handles.

The door bounced and heaved as the paladin tried to fight his way through. Bronwyn doubted that the charred boards would hold for long. She snatched the three rings from their slots and thrust them onto her hands.

“Come on!” she said, and took off down the ramp at a run. The tower shrank swiftly, sending the ground hurtling up to meet them. The crossbars that gave footing on the ramp were compressed, moving together. Bronwyn misjudged the distance and caught her toe in one of the bars.

She fell forward and went into an uncontrollable roll. The fall was mercifully brief; the landing, less merciful. Bronwyn slammed into the ground, rolled, and came to a stop with a clank of metal. When her vision cleared, she found herself looking into the fixed, staring eyes of a slain Zhentilar soldier. The plate armor that covered his chest had been deeply dented by a dwarven axe.

Bronwyn shuddered and shrank back. Strong hands seized her and dragged her to her feet, held her until her world stopped whirling.

Her eyes settled upon Ebenezer’s broadly grinning face. “That was good thinking on your part,” he said, nodding to the tiny siege tower standing in the courtyard. “Though I don’t envy that human much, getting shrunk like that. Makes magical travel feel like a foot massage, I’m telling you that for free.”

She reached out to give the dwarf an affectionate cufl then changed her mind and simply fell into his arms. His grip tightened around her, squeezed with gentle strength, and then he let her go.

Ebenezer cleared his throat and stepped back, turning his attention pointedly to matters elsewhere in the fortress.

Cara came to stand at his side, the Fenrisbane in her hands. She had torn a strip from her ruined gown, and securely tied it around the tower to hold the hatch in place.

The dwarf nodded to the tower. “What you fixing to do with him, now that you got him all boxed and gift-wrapped?”

Bronwyn hadn’t thought that far, but the answer came to her. “I’m going to turn the tower over to Khelben Arunsun. Secretiy. It will be secure in Blackstaff Tower, especially if no one knows it’s there.”

“Think you can trust him?”

“On this matter, yes,” she said shortly. “Whatever else Khelben Arunsun might be, he is no warmonger looking for conquest. And he doesn’t look kindly on those who fit that description. He’ll keep the tower secure.”

“Well, that’s fine, then.” The dwarf looked wistfully at the siege tower. “Before you do that, lemme give the thing a good long, hard shake, or at least drop it from a high place.”

Bronwyn grimaced, finding herself in sympathy with the dwarfs sentiment. “Algorind is defeated. I can’t kill him now.”

Ebenezer sighed. “I suppose not. Let the wizard deal with him.”

“Khelben is the least of Algorind’s concerns,” Bronwyn said with sudden certainty. She remembered the look in the paladin’s eyes when he spoke of the price of failure. As to that, she could do nothing. He had chosen this life, and he would be paid in the wages of his own choice.

Tarlamera sauntered up, looking almost happy for the first time since Bronwyn had met her. “Nice place. You thinking to be giving this back to the paladins?”

The answer that came into Bronwyn’s mind surprised her, but she realized that it was the right one. “No. I’m going to hold the fortress. Thornhold does not belong to the order. It legally belongs to my family. To Cara and me.”

“Important thing, a good clanhold,” Tarlamera admitted. “How you thinking to hold it, though?”

She turned to the red-bearded woman. “I was hoping you might be interested. The tunnels will have to be cleared and protected. You folk could use the fortress as a base until you have secured the tunnels. And even then, you could hold both. This is a good trade site,” she added. “I’m sure that dwarves from Mirabar and farther north would be glad of a place to come and trade, outside of the city.”

“Been to the city,” the dwarf woman agreed. “No reason to go back.”

“I’m sure others feel as you do. Think of how a good fortress, a thriving trade, could help you rebuild your clan.”

“Dwarves don’t hold fortresses,” Tarlamera scoffed, but she looked more than a little intrigued. She scowled and strode off “I’ll think on it,” she tossed back over her shoulder.

“She’ll do it,” Ebenezer translated. “And she thanks you for the offer.”

Bronwyn laughed, delighted by the gruff affection in her friend’s voice. He had his family back. Now that she had a family of her own—she and Cara were family; there was no longer a question in her mind—she knew its value.

“Ah,” she said teasingly. “So that’s what she said. I wouldn’t have guessed, but family matters can be … complicated.”

“True enough,” he agreed. He craned his head and looked up at the darkening sky. A few stars were coming out, and the only sound beyond the walls was the distant murmur of the sea. “Getting late. Might be we should find ourselves some beds, if we’re going to get on the road come morning.”

She stared at him, puzzled. “You’re not staying?”

“Never do. Not for long, anyway. Having secured the clanhold—and taken the measure of my kin—I’d just as soon head out. If it’s all the same to you, thought I’d make my home with you for a while, seeing as how you live on the road and furnish your digs with enough trouble to keep things interesting. Might get myself one of them Harper pins, too, now that I got into the habit of meddling.”

A smile spread slowly across Bronwyn’s face. “Speaking of trouble, I still have this ring, you know.”

“That ought to do it,” the dwarf agreed.

29 Mirtul, DR 1368

Khelben Arunsun seldom dreaded anything, but he would gladly have given up a century of his life to avoid the summons to Piergeiron’s palace. He felt somewhat reassured by the presence of his nephew. The boy seemed to understand much more than he was told. Khelben hoped, and almost dared to pray, that the young man he loved as dearly as any son would not learn to know him much better than he now did.

With difficulty he focused upon the conversation taking place in Piergeiron’s study.

“The Knights of Samular held Thornhold for nearly five hundred years,” the First Lord said earnestly. “They are needed in that place.”

“I appreciate your feelings on this matter,” Danilo responded with far more diplomacy than Khelben would have mustered, “but we must confront the facts. The fortress is in the name of the Caradoon family. Bronwyn has elected to hold it as a legacy for her niece.”

‘Two young females cannot hold a keep,” Piergeiron pointed out.

“But the dwarves can. Some might even argue that the Stoneshaft clan has a better claim. They have lived beneath those mountains for more centuries than the knights have lived above.”

Piergeiron sighed. “You have been passionate in your defense of this woman. Yes, she recovered the rings of Samular but consider this: only one ring of three is in the proper hands!”

“Scattering the rings among diverse powers might prove to be a wise precaution, if unintentionally so,” Khelben put in. “The possibility of anyone combining the rings’ power into a single, devastating force is greatly diminished.”

“I cannot agree. These are artifacts sacred to Tyr. Yet I am told that the child maintains ties with her father, who is of the Zhentarim, and a priest of Cyric!”

“Yes, that is so. Bronwyn returned one of the rings to the paladins of the order, leaving one ring in the hands of the Harpers. There is balance in that, Piergeiron. Let it end.”

The First Lord shook his head regretfully. “How can I? And truly, Khelben, how can you consider the Harpers a sound fulcrum for balance, when there is such turmoil within Harper ranks? Sooner or later, there will be such division that some Harpers will be tempted to seek agreement and support wherever they may find it. Then there is the matter of Cara Doon. The girl should have been turned over to the order for proper training and guidance.”

“With all due respect, Cara was turned over to the order,” Danilo pointed out. “And she ended up with the Zhentarim in Thornhold.”

Piergeiron had the grace to look embarrassed. He picked up a scroll from the table and handed it to Khelben. “This letter may shed light on that unfortunate event.”

The archmage unrolled the scroll and scanned the ornate, old-fashioned script. It was a letter from Sir Gareth Cormaeril. After the usual salutations and courtly thanks for hospitality received, the old knight went on to report Algorind’s perfidy. It seemed that he had committed a number of crimes, among them cooperating with both the Zhentarim and the Harpers, and selling into their hands a child of Samular’s blood. He ultimately deserted the order to which he had pledged service, but not before he had consorted with Bronwyn and fought with her first at Gladestone and then at Thornhold.

“I cannot speak to all of the crimes this young man is accused of committing, but at least one of his sins is painted here in far more dire colors than it deserves,” said Khelben.

“Sir Gareth is a prudent man and careful with his speech,” Piergeiron said adamantly.

“Is that so? Judging from the ‘prudent remarks’ inscribed here, your friend seems to think that Harpers and Zhents are fit to stew in the same pot,” Khelben observed dryly.

“Forgive me, but I am inclined to agree with him.”

A long silence followed the paladin’s words. Seeing the futility of discussion on this matter, Khelben nodded to his nephew. Danilo placed a small box on the table next to a tray of cheeses and fruit, and carefully removed the lid.

“Here is proof that Algorind did not desert his order. As to his other supposed crimes, let him stand trial for them— when he is tall enough to do so.”

Danilo carefully removed from the box a small figure, a man no bigger than his hand, and placed him on the table. The little man stood straight, but his face held more dejection than Khelben would have thought could possibly be squeezed into so tiny a space.

The First Lord bent close, squinting, then sat up abruptly with a sharp intake of breath. “That is Algorind! Whatever happened to him?”

“I am tempted to say that he was cut down to size, but that would be unkind,” Danilo said dryly. “This occurred during the battle of Thornhold. He turned on Bronwyn and tried to snatch Cara from her for what was at least a third time. Yet Bronwyn spared him and entrusted him to Khelben. A noble gesture from a paladin’s true daughter.”

Piergeiron did not comment on this assessment. He turned to the archmage. “Can you not return this man to his normal stature?”

“It is not my magic that did this,” Khelben pointed out, not without a certain satisfaction. “This is ancient magic, sacred to the Knights of Samulat Would it be right to gainsay it?”

“He is rapidly returning to size,” Danilo said helpfully. “In a few moon cycles, he should be back to normal. But this, I fear, will remain as you see it.”

He took from the collar of his shirt what appeared to be a gleaming silver pin. It was in truth a paladin’s sword, Algorind’s sword, in perfect miniature. Danilo skewered a small square of cheese with it, and left it standing thus upright on the tray. A fresh wave of desolation swept over the tiny paladin’s face at this indignity.

“He should be turned over to his brothers,” Piergeiron mused, “but in such a state?”

“It would be better so,” Danilo urged. “With respect, sir, I have little interest in growing a paladin, and no skill for such tasks.”

The First Lord sighed. “So be it, then.”

“About Bronwyn,” Danilo began.

Piergeiron cut him off with an upraised baud. “I will agree to let the matter of Thornhold stand. But you should know, Khelben, that the Holy Order of the Knights of Samular— and many of their brother paladins—feel they have reason to distrust the Harpers.”

Another silence followed Piergeiron’s pronouncement. In it, Khelben heard the inevitable turning of another page in the lore book of the Harpers. A very long book, it was, and its pages traced many long years, so many endings and partings and false, fresh starts. But for all that, wasn’t the story ever the same? The irony of this brought a small, hard smile to his lips

“I do not mean that as a personal insult,” Piergeiron said earnestly, misunderstanding the archmage’s grimly resigned smile. “We have been friends for many years. No one, I least of all, could doubt your devotion to this our city or discount the good that you have done. Much of that good you have accomplished through the Harpers whose activities you have directed. I do not claim otherwise.”

“But?”

Piergeiron kept his gaze steady on the archmage’s face. “I still trust you, Khelben, but I fear that goodly men can no longer put their trust in your Harpers.”