Элейн Каннингем - Thornhold

The hymn resumed, this time swelling on a note of exultation. Algorind joined in with all his heart, and swept out of the chapel with his brothers.

Almost immediately, news of the slain messenger spread throughout the hall. Algorind was summoned to Laharin’s study to deliver his report.

Algorind hurried to the keep, the large building that dominated the north end of the complex, and climbed the stairs to the tower that held the Master’s inner sanctum. The tower room was circular, its furnishings simple, even austere. The only flash of color in it was the vivid yellow hue of Laharin Goldbeard’s bright whiskers and thinning hair. The Master sat in a high-backed wooden bench behind a table of polished wood. The chairs that flanked and faced the table were hardly designed for comfort, and no tapestries softened the stone walls. A shelf held tokens of great deeds accomplished, as well as a single row of dusty books. Two tall, narrow windows and a trio of squat candles provided light enough to see, if not to read. Scholarship was not scorned, exactly, but neither was it numbered among the Order’s knightly virtues.

Algorind came in when he was bid and took one of the chairs facing Master Laharin. He nodded respectfully to the other men who flanked the paladin—Mantasso and two of the highest-ranked priests, and three elder paladins, including Sir Gareth Cormaeril, a nobleman and paladin of great fame, retired from active service to the Knights of Samular by a grievous wound more than thirty years ago. Despite his injuries and his life of enforced inactivity, the old man was tall and strong still. He had arrived at the fortress just that morning—shortly before Algorind had left on his patrol—after a two-day ride that would exhaust many a younger man. At the moment, he looked the part of an elder statesman, clad in dignified garments of somber blue hue, his white beard neatly trimmed and his bright blue eyes keen and watchful.

The men listened carefully as Algorind gave his report. “You have done well,” Laharin admitted when the tale was told—extravagant praise, coming from the master paladin. “The task that now falls to us, however, is more difficult than your feats at arms.”

“This is no easy matter,” Sir Gareth agreed. “Our brother Hronulf has long believed his family dead. Now we learn that there is a son. Unless this lost son—no less than a priest of Cyric—accepts Tyr’s grace, there is little we can do for him. His child, however, is another matter.”

Mantasso folded massive arms and stared the knight down. “The message says that the little girl is kept in safe fosterage, happy with the family who has raised her from birth, and innocent of the evil her father has chosen. Have we any right to disturb this?”

“Not only right, but duty,” Laharin said sternly. “Of course she must be brought under the care and instruction of the order. And the possibility, however slight, that she may have in her possession one of the Rings of Samular adds urgency to the matter. But how to proceed?”

“With your indulgence, Master Laharin, I propose that the answer is right before us,” Sir Gareth said in his courtly manner. “What of this lad? I hear tell that he is the best and brightest of the crop, and more than ready for his paladin’s quest. Charge him with finding the girl and the ring.”

A heartbeat passed, and then another, before Algorind realized they were speaking of him. They were thinking of granting him a paladin’s quest! He had not expected such honor for another year at least!

“I take it you are willing,” Laharin said dryly, studying Algorind’s shining face.

“More than willing! Grateful, my lords, to serve Tyr and his holy Order, in this manner or any other.”

“He is eager, that is without question,” grumbled Mantasso. The big priest stirred impatiently, drawing an ominous creak from his wooden chair. “Before you continue, I must speak my mind on this matter!”

“Of course,” Laharin said in a tightly controlled voice. “Why should this matter be different from any other?”

Algorind blinked, astonished by this sign of disharmony among the Masters. Mantasso, who was watching him keenly, noted this and shook his head in exasperation.

“I mean no disrespect to any present,” the big priest said, “but this youth belongs in the clergy, not the military order. Is it not our mandate as servants of Tyr to use all our gifts in his service? All? Algorind possesses learning and languages, a quick mind, and a potential for both scholarship and leadership. His knowledge of map lore is remarkable, and he is well spoken and comely. In the priesthood, he could go far and accomplish much, influencing many to the cause of Tyr. But how many paladins live to see their thirtieth winter? Even their twenty-fifth? Perhaps two or three in a hundred! You venerable gentlemen in this chamber are not the rule, but the rare exception!”

“And Algorind is not exceptional?” retorted Laharin. “We are well aware of the young paladin’s gifts and potential. The Order needs men of his talent and dedication. The matter is settled.” He turned to Algorind. “You have your duty, brother. See that you fulfill it well.”

Algorind rose, too full of joy for words, and bowed deeply to the Master. He left the study to attend to his quest, certain that nothing could exceed the glory of this moment.

Sir Gareth followed him and hailed him to a stop. The famed paladin offered Algorind his hand, clasped wrists with him as if Algorind was already a fellow knight. Nor did he leave the matter there. They walked together, and Sir Gareth offered him guidance and advice, instructing him on what steps must be taken once the child was rescued.

Such fellowship was more honor than Algorind had ever dreamed of. He listened carefully, storing each detail in his carefully trained memory. By the time Algorind’s gear was packed and his white horse readied, Sir Gareth pronounced him ready.

“You will bring honor to the order, my son,” the great man assured him with a kind smile. “Remember the knightly virtues: courage, honor, justice. To these, I add another: discretion. This is a subtle matter. It is important that you tell no man what you do. Will you so swear?”

Nearly giddy with excitement and hero worship and holy fervor, Algorind dropped to one knee before the paladin. “In this matter and all others, Sir Gareth, I will do as you command.”

It took Bronwyn nearly two days to track down Malchior.

First, she had to find and question the Harper agents who had carried out Danilo’s bidding and kept Malchior’s men from following her. That was no small task, for secrecy was a habit deeply ingrained among the Harpers, and many were reticent to share secrets even among their own. Fortunately, one of Danilo’s henchmen, Nimble, was a halfling with bardic pretensions. The ditty he composed of the event—his own role dramatically enhanced, naturally—made the rounds of the taverns and meeting places frequented by the short folk. Alice Tinker had heard the song on her evening out, and had brought the tale—along with the loudly protesting halfling—back to Bronwyn.

Nimble’s tale, when shorn of ornamentation, was of little real help. The priest had disappeared, leaving only a puff of acrid purple smoke. Bronwyn searched the city, calling in every marker she had for information, as well as indebting herself so deeply that the favors she owed, if placed end to end, would keep her busily employed until snowfall. But finally, her efforts bore fruit and led her to an elf who possessed deep resources and an exceedingly dark reputation.

“You owe me,” the elf said unnecessarily as he handed her a roll of parchment.

Bronwyn grimaced as she took the parchment, imagining the sort of payment that this particular contact was likely to call in. She unrolled the scroll and whistled in appreciation. It was plans for a medium-sized villa. In tiny script, the elf had noted magical safeguards, hidden doors, concealed alcoves for guards, and other closely guarded secrets. She raised suspicious eyes to her benefactor.