“Don’t hurt her,” the child said in a remarkably clear, bell-like voice. There was more anger than fear in her tip-tilted elven eyes.
“I have no wish to harm you or your mother, child,” he said gently.
“Foster mother,” corrected the child, showing a regard for truth worthy of a child of Samular.
“Woman, is this the child of Dag Zoreth, priest of Cyric?” Algorind demanded.
“She is mine! She has been mine since her birth! Go away, and leave us alone,” the woman pleaded. She set the child on the ground and pushed her behind her purple skirts, shielding the girl with her own body.
This put Algorind in a quandary. Surely this brave and selfless response was not the behavior of an evil hireling. He fell back a few paces, sword still ready in case of sudden treachery. His eyes remained on the purple-clad woman, but his focus drifted past her and his lips moved in prayer. The power that Tyr granted all paladins enveloped him. In the name of the God of Justice, Algormd weighed and measured the woman before him.
Pain struck him like tiny knives to the temples. An image came to him, that of a purple sunburst and a glowing black skull. Algorind drew in breath in a quick, pained gasp. Tyr had spoken: the woman was allied with evil—great evil. She followed the mad god Cyric.
But Tyr was also merciful, so Algorind drew himself back, away from the god-given insight. “Woman, will you renounce Cyric and the evil bargain you have made? Give the child into my hands and live.”
Her eyes flamed, and she defiantly spat at the ground by Algorind’s feet.
Algorind’s way was clear, yet still he hesitated. Never had he killed a woman, much less one who was unarmed and untrained. And certainly never in the presence of a child.
“Run, child,” he advised kindly. “This is not for your eyes.” But the girl was as stubborn as her foster mother, and she stayed where she was. All that was visible were her tiny hands, clutching at the woman’s bold purple skirts. Algorind summoned a silent prayer to steady his resolve and to drown out his own protests against this terrible duty. He struck a single, merciful blow. The woman slumped to the ground. The child regarded him over the body of her foster mother, the purple skirts still fisted in her hands and her eyes wide with terror. Then, suddenly, she turned on her heals and ran like a rabbit.
Algorind sighed and put away his sword. His paladin’s quest was growing more perplexing by the moment.
* * * * *
Bronwyn did not sleep well that night. In the room above the Curious Past, she tossed and twisted in her bed. Her dreams were filled with long-forgotten images, childhood memories awakened by Malchior’s revelation. Her father’s name was Hronulf. He had been a paladin of Tyr. He had expected something of her, something important. As a child, she had not understood what that was, and she could not piece together enough images to gain an understanding.
She awoke before dawn, determined to find answers. From what she’d heard of Tyr’s followers, the early hour would be no deterrent. Quickly she dressed and slipped down to the shop.
Alice, her small brown face tight with motherly wrath, was already awake and waiting for her. She brandished her feather duster at Bronwyn with a gusto that would not have been out of place had she been wielding a flaming sword. “And where do you think you’re going at this hour?”
Bronwyn sighed and leaned against a green marble statue. she’d retrieved from Chult. “I have business, Alice. A business, I might add, that employs you.”
The gnome snorted, not at all cowed by this reminder of her status. She shook a stubby brown finger at Bronwyn. “Don’t think I don’t know what time you came in last night. You’re up to something, and I want to know what. Let me help you where I can, child,” she said in a gentler voice.
“All right,” Bronwyn relented. “I’m going to the Halls of Justice to talk to some of the paladins there. I might have found word of my father.”
The gnome sank down to sit on a carved chest. “After all these years,” she said faintly. “Who gave you this word?”
“A Zhentish priest. The one who commissioned the amber necklace,” Bronwyn answered. Anger at Malchior’s treachery crept into her voice. “He’s up to something, and I intend to know what.”
“Yes, I suppose that’s for the best,” Alice murmured absently. “You’ll be back this morning?”
“Not before highaun. I’ve got to stop by the Ilzimmer gem shop on Diamond Street. They’re repairing and cleaning the gold setting on that emerald piece.”
“Fine. I’ll pick up something from the market for a midday meal,” the gnome said.
Bronwyn nodded her thanks and walked out into the dark streets. The sky overhead was beginning to fade to silver, and many of the street lamps were guttering as the night’s supply of oil ran low. Despite the early hour, the city was not sleeping. Though the Street of Silks was considered by the wealthy to be a place to shop, dine, or seek entertaiament, many hardworking merchants lived above their shops and taverns. Smoke rose from chimneys as servants and goodwives started the breakfast fires. A cart rumbled past, drawn by a pair of stolid oxen and guided by a sleepyeyed driver. Wheels of cheese and casks of new milk filled the cart, and the somnolent cat lying atop a cask opened one eye to regard Bronwyn.
She quickly reclaimed her horse from the nearby public stable and set off toward the temple of Tyr. The Halls of Justice was a complex of three large buildings, somber, square edifices of gray stone that formed a triangle around a grassy field. It was not a grim scene, however. Banners hung in a bright row from the balcony of the main building, standards, no doubt, from the various paladins’ orders. Though the sunrise colors still streaked the sky, a dozen or more men and three women were already busy with weapons training.
Bronwyn stated her business to the young knight at the door. His courteous manner warmed and brightened at the mention of Hronulf.
“You are in good fortune, lady,” he said in animated tones. “Sir Gareth Cormaeril is in residence today. He was a great friend of Hronulf’s and a partner in arms in their youth. You will surely fmd him in the exchequer’s study, attending to the business of his order. Shall I escort you there?”
“Please.” Bronwyn listened carefully as the young man continued to extol Sir Gareth, Hronulf, and the former great deeds of the mighty warriors. He told the story of the Zhentarim attack and the terrible wound that Gareth received defending his friend’s life.
“Sir Gareth serves the Order of the Knights of Samular still as exchequer in charge of funds. Hronulf, of course, is still on active duty.”
Bronwyn’s heart thudded at this news. Her father was still alive? For some reason, that possibility had never occurred to her. She had hoped only to hear stories of him. Never had she dreamed that she might see him again with her own eyes.
The chatty young knight kept talking, but Bronwyn did not hear another word until she stood at the door of Sir Gareth’s study. The knight made the introductions and left her there.
Sir Gareth was a handsome man in late middle life, robust still despite the wound that rendered his right arm virtually useless. He graciously received her and sent a servant for tea.
“You wish to know of Hronulf Caradoon,” he said. “May I inquire what the source of your interest might be?”
Bronwyn saw no reason to prevaricate, yet instinct and habit prompted her to tell less than the whole truth. “I have been looking for my family for many years. It is possible that Hronulf might have information that will help me in my search.”
Sir Gareth leaned back in his chair and regarded her thoughtfully. “That is most interesting. Hronulf, too, has suffered a loss of family. I am certain he will be most sympathetic to your plight and will do all that is in his power to aid you. Of course,” he said with a faint, proud smile, “he would do so regardless.”