A delighted cry burst from the child. “It’s Bronwyn! She has come to visit?”
“To stay, if you like,” he said, and meant it. If he could find a way to keep them both, to use the power only they could wield, he would surely do it. “And the man with her?”
Cara’s brown eyes narrowed, and her lip jutted out. “That is the man who stole me. He killed my foster parents and took me away. He chased me in Waterdeep.”
So Sir Gareth was telling the truth after all, Dag mused. Dark pleasure rose in him like a tide at the thought of having this man, this paladin, delivered so conveniently into his hands. The single-minded fool probably expected to fight his way clear or die gloriously.
“He will not hurt you here,” Dag assured her, “but we cannot be certain he will not hurt Bronwyn, unless we let them in. Do not be afraid.”
Cara shot him an incredulous look. “I am not afraid. I am angry.”
He smiled with approval and started forward. They walked until they had reached the small parapet overlooking the gate.
His first glimpse of his sister affected him in ways he had not expected. She was beautiful, and though he had not seen her for twenty years and more, so very familiar. Memory stirred, one of those memories that would forever be branded in his mind with utter, terrible clarity. He saw again his mother’s white face, set in grim determination as she leaped to the defense of her children. That expression was reborn in his sister Bronwyn’s eyes.
He could use that, Dag thought, striving mightily for detachment. If she was so attached to Cara, she might be willing to do nearly anything for the girl. Their mother had died protecting her brood. Let us see, he mused, if Gwenidale’s daughter had inherited her mother’s heart as well as her face.
Dag stepped forward, so that he was in full view of the riders who waited outside the gate. “State your name, and your purpose,” he called down.
Pain, sharp and stabbing and insistent, thrummed along Algorind’s temples. He shaded his eyes and tilted back his head to look up at the wall. There was no doubt in his mind who the speaker was. Evil emanated from the man in waves, Algorind silently prayed for strength and for the shield needed to hold back evil’s power long enough to defeat it.
The woman beside him suffered no apparent ill effects. In fact, she looked disturbingly at home, and a small smile curved her lips.
“Ask Cara who I am,” she tossed back.
There was a moment’s silence. “Very good, sister. You say much in a few words, but you have answered only one of my questions. What do you seek here?”
Bronwyn slid a quick glance at Algorind and nodded. That was the signal they had agreed upon. They dismounted and walked together toward the walls. Praise be to Tyr, his mental shields held, and the pain caused by proximity with evil did not intensify.
“I am a merchant,” Bronwyn called up. “I have learned that there is nothing that cannot be bought, if the price is high enough.”
Algorind marveled at her calm. She stood easily, her head cocked and her hands resting lightly on her hips. One would think that bartering for a child’s life meant nothing to her.
“Your terms?” the priest called down. There was a hint of amusement in his voice that Algorind found more chilling than shrieking rage.
“Simple enough. I want Cara. In exchange, I will give you all three rings of Samular and the powerful artifact they command. What you chose to do with them is no concern to me.”
This betrayal smote Algorind with an icy fist. “Do not!” he protested, utterly aghast at this revelation of her true, base nature.
Bronwyn turned and gave him a small, cool smile.
He reached for his sword, but it was too late. The massive door swung open, and a score of Zhentish soldiers surrounded them. They swarmed him, pushing him roughly through the gates and toward whatever fate this treacherous woman had in mind for him.
Nineteen
Dag hurried down the gatehouse stairs as Bronwyn and the captive paladin entered the courtyard. He smiled and strode forward to reclaim his heritage at last.
“Hello, Bron,” he said, voicing the almost-forgotten nickname with a faint smile.
“Bran?’ She stood staring at him, her eyes huge and her face a canvas awash with more emotions than he could name. “I suddenly remember. . . so much?’
As did he. Bron and Bran, they had called each other. Nearest in age, if not in disposition, they were intense friends and foes during childhood. Images, fleeting and bittersweet, assailed him.
She took a step forward and held out a hand in an unthinking gesture. He took it in both of his own. “You’ve made an offer, but I would like you to reconsider it. You could stay here, if you wished, with Cara and me.”
Her large brown eyes focused on him and went utterly cold. She snatched back her hand. “tinder the same roof as my fathers murderer? Not a chance. Give me Cara, and I’ll go.”
He refused to let her response sting. “Not quite yet. There is the matter of the rings and the artifact,” he reminded her then tsked lightly. “Same old Bron. Hoarding all the toys.” Dag understood the undeniable charm of memory and he wielded like a sword his knowledge that he once had been the person that Bronwyn loved above all others.
She shook her head, refusing to succumb. “I want to see Cara,” Bronwyn said adamantly.
He lifted one brow. “Do you not hear her? She is in the gatehouse, under the care of hardened soldiers who, at this moment, are no doubt wishing they were patrolling the Mere of Dead Men, instead.”
She cocked her head and smiled fiercely when the sounds of Cara’s angry struggle reached her.
Dag turned to the guard at his elbow. “Have the men send her down.”
The message was relayed, and Cara flew out of the gate-house door like a small brown bird. She threw herself into Bronwyn’s arms with a glad cry. “My father said you’ve come to visit! He said maybe you will stay.”
Bronwyn looked at Dag over Cara’s head, holding his eyes as she spoke. “Plans have changed, Cara. You are going with me. Give your father the ring.”
Without hesitation, the little girl peeled off the artifact and handed it to Dag. That concerned him, and stung more than a little. Hadn’t he impressed upon her the importance of the ring and the power that came with her heritage? Did she value it—and him—so lightly?
Dag thrust aside these thoughts and turned back to Bronwyn. “The artifact,” he said, and his voice sounded colder to his ears than he had intended to make it.
Bronwyn set Cara down and shouldered off her pack. From it she took a small object, carefully wrapped in a travel blanket. Dag watched avidly as she peeled off the covering, holding his breath and hardly daring to imagine what the item might be.
She handed him a small, wooden object. Puzzled, he took it from her. It was a miniature siege tower. A cunning piece of work, certainly, but a toy for all that.
He raised furious eyes to her face. “What is this?”
“Precisely what it appears to be,” she said curtly. “Look at the platform. There are three small grooves. When the rings are placed into them by a descendant of Samular, the tower will grow to enormous size.”
Dag looked at the tower with new interest. This was what he needed, exactly what he needed! With it, he could make short work of an escalade and gain another stronghold for the Zhentarim. That is, if it worked as Bronwyn claimed.
He handed her back the tower. “Show me.”
She looked hesitant. “You’d do better to wait until morning and take the tower out into the open. I’ve seen it grow. This courtyard might not accommodate it.”
That, Dag doubted. Judging from the depth and breadth of the toy’s base, in relation to its height, it could most likely fit into the bailey without difficulty. “How tall does it grow?”