Free Thornhold by Elaine Cunningham Page B

took the globe with an unwilling hand. He drew back in horror at the image within: Dag’s pale, narrow face, back lit by purple flames.
    “Speak into it in a normal voice. I will hear you,” Dag continued. His eyes mocked the knight, who hastily put aside the globe and wiped his fingers as if the touch not only burned, but sullied him. “With this device, you can continue to serve the Zhentarim, as you have for nearly thirty years.”
    Dag’s words were a deliberate insult, and were received as such. Sir Gareth’s jaw firmed and his chin lifted. “Think what you will, Lord Zoreth, but I serve the Order still. The Knights of Samular venerate the memory of Samular, our founder. In serving you, a child of the bloodline of Samular, I am fulfilling my vows.”
    “Twisted,” Dag Zoreth said with mild admiration. “Perhaps you can enlighten me on another matter. I am curious have you any idea what kind of diversions a priest of Cyric finds amusing?”
    The priest smiled at his visitor’s reaction. “You blanched just now. I will take that as a yes. How, then, do you justify the use of your Order’s funds to finance Malchior’s leisure activities?”
    Sir Gareth’s face was ashen, but his gaze remained steady. “Whatever else he may be, Malchior is a scholar and most knowledgeable in the lore and history of my Order. It is right and fitting that some of the Order’s monies support this work. I have no firsthand knowledge that these funds were used in any other manner.”
    “A fine distinction, and one that I’m sure you find soothing,” the priest commented. His face hardened and the dark amusement in his eyes vanished. “Permit me one more question. By what possible light could you justify condemning children to death?”
    The former paladin dropped his head into his hands, as if the weight of his unacknowledged guilt was too heavy to bear. “I had no hand in what happened to Hronulf’s children.”
    “Did you not? Did you not sell some of your Order’s most precious and closely guarded secrets? If that led raiders to my father’s village and to me, I suppose none of the taint clings to your garments.”
    Sir Gareth sat up abruptly, his shoulders squared. The awareness of imminent death was in his eyes, but he was still paladin enough to meet his anticipated fate squarely.
    “It is rather late for you to die a martyr,” Dag said coldly. “Killing you slowly and painfully would be vastly amusing, but all things considered, it would be administering simple justice. That is the purview of your god, not mine.”
    “Then what do you want from me, priest of Cyric?”
    “No more than Malchior wanted,” Dag said. “Information is worth far more to me than the brief satisfaction I would derive from your demise.”
    The knight studied him, then nodded. “If the knowledge is mine, it shall be freely given.”
     
    Three
     
    Algorind reigned his horse around a pile of boulders that had fallen onto the path from the cliff above. They were too large for one man to move; he would have to note this in his report so Master Laharin could send more men on the next patrol. Keeping the paths between the river and the Dessarin Road clear and safe was one of the duties of the young paladins who trained in Summit Hall—a duty that Algorind was glad and proud to shoulder.
    This was his first solitary patrol, and his first time riding Icewind, the tall white horse that he had spent long days breaking to saddle and bridle. Icewind was not a true paladin’s mount—that Algorind had yet to earn—but he was a fine beast. Algorind settled happily into the rhythm of the horse’s long-legged stride and allowed his thoughts to stray to the evening ahead.
    Tonight, three young paladins would be inducted into the Order. They would become Knights of Samular through an ordeal of faith and arms, and by the grace of Tyr, god of justice and might. The prospect of witnessing this ritual filled Algorind with sublime joy.
    All his life, he had longed to be a knight. By the happiest of