A thunderstorm! Inspiration struck again, and Dag began to tear at the vines and brambles before him. In moments, he had uncovered a blasted, blackened stump. Shards of an ancient tree lay nearby, and weirdly shaped mushrooms grew from the black powder of rotted limbs. It was the very oak tree Dag sought, struck by lighting many years ago and burned nearly to the ground.

The ring was not easy to find amid the ruins of the tree. As Dag searched, the gathering storm swallowed the sun and deepened the shadows that shrouded the clearing.

Dag’s horse whinnied nervously. The priest ignored these warnings. Rain began to pelt down as his searching hands raked through the debris, and soon the forest around him shuddered with the force and fury of the storm. Another man might not have found the ring at all, but it seemed to call out to Dag, urging him on.

He reached for a clump of mud and crushed it with his fingers. He felt something hard, and caught a glimpse of gold. Eagerly he reached for the small wineskin attached to his belt and poured the contents over the encrusted band— barely noticing the sting when the wine met his battered skin. He scrubbed the band clean on his ruined tunic and rose to his feet, his family treasure tightly clutched in one triumphant, bleeding fist.

Dag examined the ring by the light of another livid flash. Arcane marks scored the inside of the band. He had seen the marks once as a child and had assumed they were only a design. Now he could read the cryptic runes: When three unite in power and purpose, evil trembles.

Three, Dag mused. He knew of only two rings. As the pat­tern took shape in his mind, he began to understand why Malchior, his mentor, was suddenly so interested in Dag’s family history. It seemed likely to Dag that his childhood memories of the rings’ importance were based on more than legend. If Malchior was nosing about, there was real power to be had. Luckily the old priest knew nothing about the ring. Or perhaps he did; few high-ranking members of the Then­tarim were known for altruism. Surely Malchior did not go through the trouble of seeking out Dag’s lost past, and the location of his birth village, just to put his former acolyte’s mind at ease. Well, be that as it may, Malchior would not find him a docile tool, nor would power of any sort leave Dag’s hands without a bloody struggle.

Dag started to slip his family ring onto his index finger, as Byorn had once worn it.

Pain, quick and bright and fierce, lanced through him. Astonished, Dag jerked off the ring. He dashed his rain­soaked hair from his eyes and held the ring out at arm’s length, gazing at it with a mixture of puzzlement and reproach. He was a descendant of Samular—how could the ring turn on him?

The answer came swiftly, borne on a wave of fierce self­anger. He should have seen this coming. He should have known this would happen. The ring had probably been blessed, consecrated to some holy purpose in which he, Dag Zoreth, could have no part. Samular had been a paladin of Tyr; Dag Zoreth was a strifeleader, a priest of Cyric.

On impulse, Dag took the medallion from around his neck, a silver starburst surrounding a tiny, carefully sculpted skull. He undid the clasp with fingers made slip­pery by mud and rain and his own blood, and then he slipped the ring onto the chain. He did up the clasp and put the medallion back in its proper place over his heart. The ring was hidden securely behind the symbol of Cyric.

Let Tyr—if indeed the god of justice condescended to observe someone such as Dag Zoreth—make of this what he willed.

Dag whistled for his horse and stiffly hauled himself up into the saddle. The return trip would have to be swift, for he could not wear the ring for much longer. It burned him now, even separated from his body by layers of purple and black garments and a light vest of fine elven mail. But there was another who would wear the ring for him, someone as innocent as he himself had been on that long-ago day, when an oak tree had wept crimson leaves over Byorn, the last worthy son of Tyr’s paladin.

Worthy or not, Dag fully intended to use the ring. After all, he was of Samular’s bloodline. He would reclaim his heritage—in his own way, and for his own purposes.

Two

There were other fortresses in the city of Waterdeep that were larger and more impressive, but Blackstaff Tower was without doubt the most secure and unusual fastness in the city.

Danilo Thann was a frequent visitor to the tower, and had been since Khel­ben Arunsun took him under his stern tutelage some twenty years earlier. Of late, it seemed to Danilo that the archmage’s summons were increasing in frequency, and that the demands he made upon his “nephew” and former student were growing by the day.

Today he walked openly through the invisible doors that allowed passage through the black stone of the courtyard wall, and again into the tower. This much was expected; he then sauntered in through the wooden door of the arch­mage’s study, not bothering to open the portal and in casual defiance of any wards that might have been placed upon it.

This was a typically arrogant gesture, one that no one else in the city would dare to attempt. Danilo hoped that Khel­ben perceived these acts as statements of his intention to remain independent of the archmage’s plans for him, but he suspected that this very insouciance was in no small mea­sure the reason for his frequent presence in Blackstaff Tower.

He was late, of course, and he found the archmage in an unusually foul state of mind. Khelben “Blackstaff” Arun­sun, the archmage of Waterdeep, did not often pace. Such was his power and his influence that matters usually went as he willed them to go. But at the moment, he roamed the floor of his study like one caged and extremely frustrated panther. Under different circumstances this might have afforded Danilo a bit of wry amusement, but the report he had sent to his mentor was disturbing enough to ruffle his own composure.

Khelben stopped pacing to glower at the man who was his nephew in name only. There was little similarity between them, other than the fact that they were both tall men, and that either of them would kill without hesitation to protect the other. The archmage was solid, dark, and of serious mien. He was clad in somber black garments, whereas Dan was dressed in rich shades of green and gold, bejeweled as if for a midwinter revel, and carrying a small elven harp. He was, much to the archmage’s dismay, com­mitted to a bard’s life. It was a constant source of conflict between them—a conflict that supported Danilo’s suspicion that the archmage still hoped his nephew might be his suc­cessor as keeper of Blackstaff Tower. Danilo supposed that Khelben’s reasoning was sound enough. If he were forced to tell the whole truth—an event that, fortunately, did not often occur—Danilo would have to admit that he was more skilled with a spell than with harp or lute.

He set the harp on a small table and made a quick, com­plex gesture with his hands. Immediately the harp began to play of its own accord, a lilting elven air of which Danilo was particularly fond.

This brought a scowl to the archmage’s face. “How many musical toys does one man need?” he grumbled. “You’ve been spending too much time at that thrice-bedamned bard school, neglecting your duties!”

The young bard shrugged, unconcerned by the familiar reprimand. Never mind, he thought wryly, that evidence of the archmage’s particular artistic outlet stood in every cor­ner of the room. Khelben painted; frequently, passionately, and with no discernible talent. Oddly skewed landscapes, portraits, and seascapes hung on the walls or stood on easels. Half-finished canvases leaned in rows against the far wall. The scent of paint and linseed oil mingled with the more pungent odor of spell components, which wafted in from the adjoining storage chamber.