Элейн Каннингем - Thornhold

They studied each other in silence. Dag Zoreth had no intention of telling Ashemmi that he would gain much more from the assault than the possession of a fortress. She already knew too much, as her presence here demonstrated.

“You have been forthright. Now it is my turn,” she said, as if she followed the path his thoughts were taking. “You are planning to bring the child to your new command.”

Dag’s heated blood suddenly cooled. “Why should you care? You gave her into my hands willingly enough. I have kept my pledge. Few know I have a daughter, and no one knows who gave birth to her. No one need ever know, least of all Sememmon.”

Ashemmi’s smile was that of a cream-sated cat. “Ah, but perhaps I want him to know. Why should he care whom I bedded some ten years ago? It is of no consequence—unless, of course, the child that resulted is of the bloodline of Samular.…”

Dag had been dreading this revelation since Ashemmi’s first mention of their child, but even so the implications staggered him. Why should Ashemmi want his daughter, unless she knew of the power the little girl could command? He fervently hoped that if Ashemmi had received this information from Malchior, it was by theft or magical spying. The thought of these two conspiring together was more chilling than a ghost’s embrace. If Malchior learned of the child’s existence, there would be no safety for her. But surely Ashemmi would not give up such valuable information, not when she could hoard the girl’s power for herself! Unfortunately, with a subtle, treacherous creature such as Ashemmi, there was no knowing for certain.

He decided to bluff. He closed the distance between them and his hands skimmed down her back, cupping her intimately and drawing her close. “Samular, indeed,” he murmured into her hair. His voice revealed nothing more than mild, derisive amusement. “What is some long-dead paladin to you and Sememmon? Perhaps you two are thinking of changing your occupation and allegiance?”

Ashemmi sniffed, but apparently did not deign that comment worthy of rejoinder. “There is power in the bloodline of Samular, even more than you realize.”

His hands stilled. Her bald claim stunned him, intrigued him. Given what he already knew—and his suspicion that Malchior had not told him all—he did not doubt the possibility that Ashemmi’s words held truth. He drew back a little and met her probing gaze. “What precisely do you want from me?” he asked bluntly.

An expression of distaste darkened Ashemmi’s golden eyes. “Must we spell out our terms? Haggle our way to agreement like vulgar merchants?”

“Indulge me.”

The elf smoldered, then shrugged. “Very well, then. I want the child brought here. I wish to explore her potential. Then we will see between us what use might be made of it, and her.”

This was more than Dag could bear. For years he had bided his time, not risking a possible revelation of his heritage until he was in a position to protect the innocent child who carried, unknowing, the bloodline of Samular. All this, Ashemmi could carelessly undo, and she would just as easily toss the girl aside if there was no benefit to keeping her.

He thrust the sorceress away from him. “It is a poor excuse for a mother who would so exploit her own child,” he said coldly.

“And a poor excuse for an ambitious warlord who would not ” Ashemmi snapped back. “Remember yourself, and while you are about it, bear me ever in mind. This situation presents opportunity to us both, provided we are clever and discrete in how we proceed.”

“And speaking of discretion, how will Sememmon respond, when he learns that you have been keeping this matter from him?” he retorted.

The blatant threat set Ashemmi’s eyes aflame. “ If he or any other person in Darkhold learns of the child from you, it will be from conversing with your spirit. I will tell Sememmon, in my own way and at a time that suits my purposes. I! Agree, and you and your misbegotten brat might be permitted to live out your meager, allotted span. Am I understood?”

Dag Zoreth regarded the elf with a degree of loathing normally reserved for the creatures that occasionally oozed up through the fortress midden. “Of course, Ashemmi. I understand you very, very well.”

“Good,” she purred, drawing out the word. She languidly swept her arms high, and her gown dissolved into a swirl of crimson mist. The haze floated out to envelope Dag, as intoxicating as smoldering poppies.

Ashemmi’s smile was hard and enticing. “As long as we understand each other, let us have one more secret to keep from our lord Sememmon.”

For one long moment, Dag wavered on the precipice of indecision. He could step back, he could turn away and quit this room, leaving Ashemmi naked and furious. He could.

Instead, he breathed in deeply of the mist. He held the enchanted fragrance until the power of it nearly burst him asunder, and then he moved through the crimson cloud toward her.

On the second day after he had received his quest, Algorind reined his horse to a stop on a hill overlooking a cozy valley. Smoke from the evening fire rose from a snug stone cottage. Geese strutted contentedly near a small pond, and a small herd of rothé cropped at the grass in an enclosed pen. Soil had been turned for a kitchen garden, and already a few neat rows of seedlings rose from the rich soil. He caught the sound of a woman’s teasing voice and the bubbling response of happy, childish laughter.

As he gazed at the homey scene, Algorind marveled that an evil man should have provided such ease and comfort for his child. By all appearances, this was a goodly household, unknowing of the alliance they had made. Perhaps they knew nothing of their fosterling’s heritage. But surely, if they were goodly folk, they would see the wisdom in turning the child over to him for her good and that of the order.

At that moment the cottage door opened, and a tall, brown-haired woman strode out. She held her apron bundled up before her with one hand, and with the other began to strew grain for the chickens and geese. They came running in eager response to her clucking calls.

Algorind’s eyes widened. At first glance, the woman was seemly enough, modestly clad in a simple linen shift draped with a long kirtle. But the color of her kirtle alerted and alarmed him. It was a deep, vivid purple, a color that was expensive and difficult to achieve, and a hue that no simple, decent goodwife would wear.

Her husband came out of the lean-to that served as a horse barn, and Algorind’s hand went to his sword. Not a human at all, but an elf. Algorind’s practiced eye measured the elf’s gait, his way of holding himself, the watchful readiness of his posture and his face. This was no mere farmer, but a well-trained warrior.

The truth came to him then. The priest of Cyric had arranged his daughter’s fosterage with evil subtlety. Who would suspect a simple farm family of harboring a Zhent’s child? Who did not assume that the elves were goodly folk, best left to go about their business? These were no simple folk, happy in the gift of a child that the gods had not seen fit to send them, but hirelings of an evil priest. The deception kindled Algorind’s wrath. He drew his sword and urged Icewind into a charge.

As he thundered down the hill, the woman shrieked and fled into the cottage. The forgotten grain cascaded among the squawking, scattering chickens. Algorind came at the elf with a mighty swing. The elf deftly dropped and rolled aside. He came up with a long knife in each hand and deadly intent in his catlike green eyes.

Algorind dismounted and strode forward. He met the elf’s first darting blow, swept it easily aside, riposted. The elf met his thrusting attack just as easily. For several moments they stood nearly toe to toe, in a ringing exchange of blows delivered with nearly equal skill and passionate conviction.