Somehow, he had always believed there would be more to it.

Aidan watched as one of the thieves raised a sword above his head. Silently mouthing a prayer to Tyr, Tymora, and any other god who would listen to an old, dying soldier’s last words, he waited for the final blow.

It never came. Instead, the alleyway burst into light. Aidan could see another cloaked figure step from the shadows, green fire arcing from its hand to his executioners. In the sick emerald light he caught a glimpse of the newcomer’s face, small-nosed and boyish, beneath a thick cowl. Again and again, his mysterious ally called down eldritch flames upon the thieves, who fell back, screaming.

He struggled to stand and fight, wanting to help the cowled man, but the pain of his wounds called him back. He collapsed and watched his own pool out into the road, reflecting green tongues of flame, until the darkness claimed him.

Aidan awoke in a simple, run-down room. A small fire burned in an old mantle, casting flickering shadows against the walls. He lay still for a moment, wondering how he had survived. The straw mattress upon which he had slept was lumpy, pressing uncomfortably against his lower back. But, he thought wryly, it’s better than bleeding to death on a cold dirt floor.

Aidan sat up slowly, expecting a great deal of pain. He gasped, partly in wonder and partly in disbelief, as his movements offered him only slight soreness. What’s more, his wounds looked as if they had been healing for weeks. He ran his fingers along the length of two angry looking scars, their puckered redness the only thing distinguishing them from the countless marks upon his warrior’s frame.

“I see you have decided to join the ranks of the living.”

The captain bolted up from the bed and whirled toward the sound of the voice, ignoring the protests from tight muscles. A thinly built man in purple robes stood in the open doorway. The shadows from the fire caressed the stranger’s face as he entered the room. His lips were full, almost pouty, and Aidan recognized his thoughtful, brooding look as one that often captivated young women.

The man handed Aidan some clean clothes and moved toward the fire, idly poking at the burning wood. “Whom do I have to thank for my life?” asked the captain as he changed into the simple pair of leather breeches and wool cambric.

“My name is Morgrim,” he said simply, not turning from the mantle. His voice was smooth and somewhat breathy. It sent a chill down Aidan’s spine.

The captain finished changing. “You have my thanks, Morgrim,” he said, extending his hand.

Morgrim stopped tending the fire, faced Aidan, and bowed. “Do not thank me. I am a simple priest, it’s my duty.”

Aidan smiled and awkwardly returned the bow. He’d been around long enough to know that there was nothing simple about priests-especially in Cormyr. “Which god do you serve, Morgrim?” he asked.

“Cyric,” the priest replied softly.

Aid an fell back as if struck by a crossbow bolt. He stared at the young priest in disbelief. A joke, he thought, though why anyone would make light of such a thing was beyond him.

Morgrim moved toward Aidan slowly, arms held out in front of him. In the flickering light of the fire, the captain could see the glint of silver bracers, the symbol of Morgrim’s enslavement to his dark god, on the priest’s arms.

“Why?” Aidan asked, searching the room for some weapon he could use against the foul priest. “Why did you save my life?” If he could just edge toward the door, he would have a chance to bolt out of the room before Morgrim called down Cyric’s power upon him.

“Relax,” the priest said. “I mean you no harm.”

Aidan stopped, instinct warring with the earnestness he heard in the young man’s voice. “Why should I trust you?” he asked, firing the question like an arrow at the approaching priest. “When have the servants of Cyric ever told the truth?” Aidan was angry and confused. He knew about the priesthood of Cyric, its dark rites and shadowy assassins; it festered like a tumor upon the land. But why did this priest pretend kindness? It didn’t make any sense, and he wasn’t about to let down his guard until he found out.

Morgrim hissed sharply at the question. Aidan watched the priest’s handsome face transform into a mask of bitterness, his sensual lips curling like asps. “Truth!” he shouted. “You want me to tell you the truth?”

Aidan felt the priest’s power gather in the room, a predatory silence that filled every corner of the chamber. It swelled, a hungering beast threatening to blot out even the fragile beating of Aidan’s heart. He closed his eyes against the funereal force, struggling to breathe. It was as if he had fallen into an abyss, a dark womb from which nothing ever emerged. Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the silence fled. With a gasp, Aidan opened his eyes.

“The truth is,” Morgrim continued softly, as if regretting his loss of composure, “if the Prince of Lies had called you, your soul would be serving him even as we speak.”

The priest moved even closer to Aidan, brushing his fingers across the captain’s chest as he finished speaking. Aidan stood transfixed, his heart pounding wildly, whether from Morgrim’s words or his featherlight touch he wasn’t sure. He only knew that at this moment, he stood closer to death than ever before.

Nervously, Aidan cleared his throat, looking away from the promise in Morgrim’s steady gaze. “Why,” he repeated his question, “did you save my life? Tell me, priest.”

Morgrim walked toward the old, scratched table and poured himself a glass of wine. “I have need of you.”

Aidan sat down on the bed. “You have need of me,” he repeated, his voice quavering between disbelief and incredulity, “For what? I will not participate in your murderous rites-even if you send me to Cyric as a slave.”

The priest shot Aidan a glance, bright eagerness alight in his eyes. “And what of yourself? Do you not kill? Does your sword not taste the blood of the living?” Morgrim took a quick sip of wine and thunked his goblet down on the table.

“I am a Purple Dragon,” Aidan protested. “I fight against injustice for the honor of Cormyr-”

“You are a soldier! You fight where you’re told to,” interrupted Morgrim. “When the Cormyrean king unleashes his Dragons upon Sembia or the Zhentarim, what do you think the Sembian farmers say to comfort their families? They say, ‘Do not worry, I go to fight for the honor of our people and our land.’ And when tho8e farmers die, pierced by the teeth of your swords and your spears, who is it do you think greets them on the other side of death?”

Aidan tried to reply, to say that he was different. He knew in his heart that he was no murderer, but the words died on his lips. Finally, he said, “I cannot find the words to debate you, priest. But I know what I am.”

“Peace, Aidan,” the young man said. “It is not your words that I require.” Morgrim’s voice was gentle, sliding once again into velvety tones. The sound soothed the old warrior, calming him so much that he barely heard the priest call him by name.

He looked up, surprised. “How did-”

Morgrim held up a thin, graceful hand. He took another sip of wine and said, “The thieves weren’t the only ones waiting for you in that alley. Someone stole an object of great importance from my order, an object that I have spent many months searching for.”

“The dagger,” Aidan cut in.

The young priest nodded. “Yes. The dagger, as you so elegantly call it, is the Linthane-a high priestess’s ceremonial blade and the symbol of her authority.”

Aidan drew his hand across his grizzled gray beard, trying to make sense of the priest’s words. “I don’t understand. The blade was well crafted, something far beyond what an old soldier like myself would carry but-”