Free Thornhold by Elaine Cunningham Page A

inflecting the words with irony.
    The knight’s look of puzzlement deepened. “I had little choice in the matter, young sir. I was summoned.”
    Dag sighed and shook his head. “Paladins,” he said with mild derision. “Always this need to state the obvious. Sit, please.”
    “I have no wish to intrude upon your leisure. My duty is with another. Only accept my apologies for this intrusion and I will leave you and seek him—”
    “Malchior will not be attending,” Dag broke in smoothly.
    “He sends his regards and his desire that you see in me his replacement.”
    Sir Gareth hesitated. “I do not know you, young sir.”
    “Do you not? I have chosen the name Dag Zoreth, though you may well have heard me called by another. You knew my father extremely well, if the stories tell truth.” Dag nodded at the older man’s right arm, which hung withered and useless at his side. “You took that wound saving his life. Or so they say.”
    The color drained from the paladin’s face, but still he stood as straight as a sentry.
    “Oh, sit down before you fall,” the priest said irritably.
    Sir Gareth moved stiffly to the nearest chair and sank into it, his eyes riveted on Dag’s face. “How is it possible?” he whispered. “Hronulf’s son. This cannot be true.”
    “If you are looking for my father’s likeness in me, do not bother,” Dag said with a touch of asperity. “As I recall, we were never much alike. But perhaps this little trinket will convince you of my claim.”
    He lifted a silver chain from around his neck and handed it to Sir Gareth. The old knight hesitated when he glimpsed the medallion bearing the symbol of Cyric. He forgot his scruples, however, when he caught sight of the ring behind it. He took the chain and studied the ring carefully.
    After a few moments Sir Gareth lifted his gaze to Dag’s face. “You do not wear this ring,” the paladin said. “I suspect that you cannot.”
    That was true enough, but Dag shrugged it aside. “Someone can wield it for me. If the ring is in my control, it matters little whose hand it bedecks.”
    An expression of shrewd speculation flashed into the knight’s eyes, coming and going so quickly that Dag wondered if he had only imagined it. But he remembered it, as he remembered all things Malchior had told him about this man Dag now owned.
    “There are two other rings,” Dag continued. “My father wears one. Where is the third?”
    Sir Gareth reluctantly handed back the ring. “Alas, we do not know. The ring was lost to the Holy Order long years ago, during the time of the great Samular.”
    The priest studied the older man’s face for signs of hesitation. Malchior had advised him that Sir Gareth never lied, yet often managed to speak truth in highly misleading fashion. It was difficult, Malchior had warned, to tell whole truth from artfully contrived prevarication. Dag suspected that Sir Gareth himself would be hard-pressed to tell the difference. According to Malchior, the knight was a master at the art of rationalization. Sir Gareth worked hard, desperately hard, to conceal from his brothers in the Order— and from himself, most likely—the fact that he was a fallen paladin. The grace of Tyr was no longer with him and hadn’t been for a very long time. In light of this, Dag concluded with grim, private amusement, Sir Gareth could hardly object to carrying a bit of Cyric-granted magic.
    The priest reached into the folds of his purple tabard and removed a small black globe. This he handed to Sir Gareth. “You will carry this with you, keeping it on your person at all times. When I wish to contact you, you will feel a sensation of cold fire. I will not try to explain this—you will know what it is when you feel it. When this occurs, hasten to a private spot and draw the globe out of its hiding place. The touch of your hand will open the portal—and dim the pain.” Dag smiled thinly. “But I’m sure that warning is twice unnecessary, since alacrity and fortitude are both knightly virtues.”
    Sir Gareth