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.
Epilogue
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.”