Danilo sighed. Khelben did not often visit him in his home, most likely because he was discomfited by the extravagance of the house’s furnishings, the many musical instruments that lay readily at hand, and the bards and revelers who always seemed to be gathered at table or making merry in the parlor. Today Danilo was alone but for the discrete ministrations of the steward and the half dozen or so servants under his command. Dan had planned to learn a new spell. Hastily he opened a drawer in his table and thrust the book out of sight. Although he still kept to the study of magic that his uncle had started twenty years before, he was careful to downplay his interest in the art. It would not do to raise the archmage’s hopes overmuch.
“Uncle!” he said heartily, rising to meet his visitor. He beckoned the archmage in and reached for the decanter of elven feywine that stood on his writing table. “Had you sent word you were coming, I would have had cook stir up something thick and bland in your honor.”
“I’ve eaten.” Khelben waved away the offer of wine and took the seat across from his nephew’s writing table. He glanced at the new Calishite carpet that covered most of the polished wood floor with a tapestry in rich shades of red and cream, but for once did not comment on this latest extravagance. “You have heard of the recent influx of paladins to the city?”
So that was it, Danilo mused. No doubt Khelben was concerned about the possible connection with Bronwyn and had come to hear a report and deliver advice—advice that Danilo almost certainly would not wish to follow.
“Rumors travel,” Danilo agreed lightly. Suddenly he dropped his faзade of determined cheerfulness and sank back into his chair. There were times that Danilo sorely regretted his increased role in Harper activities. His etstence had been much more congenial when the only life he was required to endanger or to answer for had been his own. Making decisions that could have grave consequences for friends such as Bronwyn, and for the other young Harper agents and messengers under his direction, was a heavy responsibility.
“The presence of so many paladins in the city worries me,” he admitted, “and has given me cause to reconsider my belief that there cannot be too much of a good thing.”
“For once, we are in accord,” Khelben said. He looked as if he wished to say more, yet there was a most unfamiliar hesitancy in his manner that greatly increased Danilo’s sense of unease.
Danilo bit back the flippant comment that came to mind. This was a time for straight and honest words.
“A paladin,” he said thoughtfully, “may well be the finest, purest example of what a man can be—the epitome of all that is noble. And a paladin mounted for battle on his war charger, filled with holy zeal and absolute courage, might well be the most inspiring sight that many mortals could hope to see. He can, and does, accomplish much good. But a hundred paladins, a thousand? United in purpose, single-minded and driven by their sense of duty? I tell you truly, Uncle, I can think of no better definition of terror.”
‘These are not words you should repeat to most men,” Khelben cautioned him, “and only to you will I say that, once again, we are in complete agreement. For this reason, I have long been wary of the paladin orders. These good men have a disturbing tendency to ride their war horses over whatever perceived obstacle they find in their path.”
“You are either with a paladin, or you are against him,” Danilo agreed. “There are no half measures, and few shades on their moral pallets other than black and white. I regretfully parted company with my old friend Rhys Brossfeather shortly after he entered Torm’s service. My ways are not his, and that was too much of a stumbling stone for him. In fact, in the eyes of many paladins, I would dare say that a Harper is nearly as much an enemy as a priest of Myrkul.”
The archmage nodded slowly. “That is well said, and therein lies our problem. It is impossible for Harpers to come out against one of the Holy Orders without incurring not only the wrath of the paladins but the suspicion of many of the common folk. In this matter, I am of divided mind. What would you suggest that we do?”
This question was the first of its kind, and Danilo quickly hid his surprise. “What we do best. Watch, report, and shape events in small ways. In the old days, the Harper who was most effective was usually unseen. I have already taken steps to measure the knights’ interest in Bronwyn and their intentions.”
“Oh?”
“Clearly, sending men to infiltrate the Halls of Justice would be a waste of time and effort, considering a paladin’s ability to weigh and measure the intentions of those about him. So I have people watching over Bronwyn’s shop, her usual contacts, even the shops and taverns she frequents. If the paladins seek her out, we will know.”
The archmage nodded, satisfied. “Good. Have you made any progress in your studies?”
Danilo blinked. For a moment, he thought that the canny archmage referred to the half-learned spell hidden in his drawer. Then he remembered the other matter of contention that lay between them: Bronwyn, and the secrets of her past.
“Indeed I have,” he said. He rose and crossed the room to a wall lined with books. Selecting one bound in fine red leather, he returned to the archmage’s side.
“I read all I could find concerning the Knights of Samular. Quite an impressive group, with a long history. There were a few things, though, that did not ring true, not even when I discounted a bit of bardic exaggeration and the usual way legends have of growing in the telling. The capture of Thornhold was one such incident.”
Khelben eyed him keenly. “You are not referring to the recent battle, the capture by the Zhents?”
“No, indeed. The original battle, in which the knights wrested the fortress from some petty warlord. Samular himself was involved, and apparently took personal title of the hold. Paladins were less conscientious about personal possession in those days, it would seem. And as Samular was from an exceedingly wealthy family, I suspect he was so accustomed to ownership that he considered it his right, not a violation of his vows.”
“Leave such matters for the Heralds,” the archmage said impatiently. “Continue.”
“Well, according to the best information I can find, the paladins under Samular’s command took the fortress in a single day, with a force of fewer than fifty men. Brunyundar, the warlord, had three times that many. Even taking into account the fervor and skill for which paladins are renowned, that seems an impossible feat.”
Khelben nodded, following Dan’s reasoning to the conclusion. “You believe they called upon the power commanded by the three rings of Samular.”
“It is reasonable,” Danilo said. “What that power might be, I do not know, but I think I can tell you how the third ring came to be lost.”
He lay the book open on the table before the archinage. “This is a new-made copy, not more than five years old, of a very old lore book. The original was copied several times before over the years, but the scribes and artists were among the finest of their times, and I believe the reproduction is true. Look closely at this etching.”
The archmage bent over the desk and studied the page. Danilo leaned over his shoulder and gazed at the drawing he had nearly committed to memory It was an exceptionally well drawn picture of a battle’s aftermath, rendered with an accuracy that suggested that the artist had not only been present, but had possessed some skill or enchantment that enabled him to capture the moment with a near-magical precision. In the background was a stone stronghold, two towers surrounded by a stout, curving curtain wall. The doors were open, indicating that the fortress had already been taken. The stonework was sharp of edge and unworn by time. The terrain was rough and hilly, and seabirds wheeled overhead. Here and there about the outer wall lay fallen men, arrows bristling from their chests or throats. These unfortunates wore chain mail of larger, coarser links than had been in use for centuries, and wore crude helmets of a type not seen in many years. In the picture’s foreground was a young man, his white cloak and robe deeply stained with his own blood. He lay supported in the arms of the burly knight who crouched beside him, and whose face was marked by deep grief. The two men were recognizable as brothers or at least near kin, though they were in many ways very different. The wounded man was young, slight, and small of stature. His face was narrow, his prematurely white hair dipped in the center of his forehead into a pronounced inverted peak, and his gesturing hands had long, supple fingers. He wore a single ring on the index finger of his left hand.