“It didn’t resemble an unholy blade consecrated to the Lord of Three Crowns?” Morgrim finished. “Believe me, the Lirithane does not look like any weapon you would want to carry. Whoever ordered the theft wove powerful illusions about the blade, making it difficult to track.”

Aidan sat for a few minutes, weighing what the priest had said. He didn’t believe Morgrim-at least not fully. Oh, the young man sounded earnest, that was certain, and his eyes, dancing with the reflected light of the fire, looked as guileless and trusting as a doe’s. Unbidden, Aidan found himself thinking of Morgrim’s feather-light touch…

The fire hissed and popped as he brought himself back to the present. “All right, let’s assume for a moment that I did carry the blade of the high priestess of Cyric last night. How did I come to possess it, and who were the cutthroats who attacked me?” he asked. Despite the warmth of the fire, Aidan felt a queer chill in the pit of his stomach, as the events of the last day swirled around in his mind. He wasn’t sure he really wanted an answer to his question.

Morgrim hesitated before speaking, as if sensing his thoughts. “I do not know how you received the Lirithane- though the identity of your attackers is easy enough to impart; they were members of the Fire Knives.”

Aidan shook his head. “Impossible. The Purple Dragons and our allies destroyed the Fire Knives.” He had been a young lieutenant then, and the memories of that fierce struggle still pulled him screaming from his sleep.

“In Tilverton, perhaps” Morgrim replied, “but remnants of the cult survived your attack. They were lost without their little god, and it was a simple thing to take them in and bend them to our purpose. They were our dark hounds, and we sent them out to hunt across the face of Faerun.”

Aidan’s blood froze. “Then why did they attack me?”

The priest sighed and said, “The hounds have gone feral. They used their familiarity with our temple to steal the high priest’s blade. They aren’t smart enough to carry this off by themselves; someone put them up to it. I tracked them across Cormyr until they ended up here, where they delivered the blade to their unknown master. Apparently, this person felt the blade was too dangerous to keep in their possession and used you to ‘deliver’ it back to the Knives.”

Morgrim paused and Aidan sat still as the priest finished, “I need your help in finding their leader.”

Nothing made sense! Aidan had spent a lifetime battling the forces of chaos and darkness, struggling to carve out a safe haven in the world, and now, on the eve of his retirement, an agent of darkness called upon him for help. His choice should have been clear.

Then why, by Tymora’s Thrice-Damned Tresses, isn’t it? he thought.

“Look, if you won’t help me out of the goodness of your heart, do it for yourself.” Morgrim whispered as he crept closer to Aidan’s silent form. “Someone set you up-someone who didn’t care whether you lived or died. Don’t you want to find out who that was?”

Aidan held his breath. Gods it was hard to think with the strange young man so close. Still, the priest had a point:

Someone in Tilverton was trafficking with dangerous forces. Retired or not, he had a duty to find out the identity of that person. With a silent prayer, he made his decision.

“What do I have to do?” he asked.

The midmorning sun shone brightly as Aidan walked down the Street of the Sorceress, heading toward the marketplace. Tilverton’s streets were crowded at this time of day, and the city seemed to take on a life of its own. Horse-drawn wagons and carriages pushed valiantly against the steady press of people, carrying loads of flour, wool, and other items for the marketplace. The people, in turn, parted reluctantly for the transport, immersed in their own private conversations. Musicians dotted the street corners, playing wildly for small groups of onlookers, their music a rhythmic counterpoint to the constant hum of conversation.

Aidan felt comforted by the sights and sounds of the city. He had spent most of the last tenday since his attack peering and poking throughout Tilverton for any information regarding the mastermind behind the Lirithane’s disappearance. So far, the results were frustrating. Whereas before his rank in the Purple Dragons opened the tightest lips, he now found himself facing a wall of silence. He was just another citizen. There was little he could do to force information from the unwilling. Even so, he managed to get a few nibbles. Unfortunately, each one had led to a dead end.

To make matters worse, he had finally returned to his own house after spending the last six nights in the mausoleum that Morgrim called a room only to find a letter from Commander Haldan requesting his presence this very afternoon. It was easy to guess what the commander wanted. Even when they were both lieutenants, Haldan had resented any civilian interference in official Dragon business. Not only had Aidan not informed his friend about the fateful attack in the alleyway, but he had also begun an investigation without official sanction. By now, the commander had most likely discovered both those facts. Aidan didn’t look forward to this interview.

A rough bump jolted Aidan from his ruminations. He looked up to find a burly fur-clad man shaking his fists; a stream of guttural language poured out from the man’s mouth. All around the angry giant, a number of animal skins lay dashed in the mud. A small crowd gathered behind the incensed man as Aidan realized with a shock that he had just stumbled into a trader’s stall. He hastily mumbled an apology and gave the irate merchant a gold coin for his troubles. Shaken, he entered the marketplace proper.

If the press of people were the lifeblood of Tilverton, the marketplace was its heart. Every road flowed into it, from the Street of the Sorceress to the Great Moonsea Ride, all paths met here at the city’s center. He ignored the tantalizing smells of the marketplace-the heady aroma of spiced meats and the thick, gooey sweetcakes designed to entice a man’s coin from his pocket. Instead, he made straight for the Council Tower, a white stone bastion rising up from the marketplace like the finger of Torm.

The sounds of merchants hawking their wares seemed to fade away as he approached the tower. It was always like this. Standing in the shadow of the tower, his concentration intensified and his strength seemed to increase. It was the strength of assurance-that whatever befell the city, this tower, and the Purple Dragon garrison within it, would strive to set it right.

He approached the guards at the tower gate, sighing inwardly as they struggled to decide whether or not to salute. It’s all different, now, he thought. No matter how recent his retirement, he was an outsider. The memories of his service in the Purple Dragons were just that-memories-and the camaraderie he shared with his shieldmates, while no less real, would eventually fade. He felt an aching loss inside, like a wound to the gut.

Quickly he jostled past the guards, sparing them any further discomfort, and entered the building. As always, the tower’s first level literally hummed with ordered chaos, as uniformed soldiers and messengers scuttled about making reports and planning the watch. The captain entered the building with measured practice and walked up to a young soldier filing papers behind a desk. He knew the officer, a steady-nerved man named Joran.

“Excuse me, Sergeant,” he said in measured tones, “but may I see the commander?”

Aidan watched as Joran looked up, the officer’s face transforming from steadied boredom to carefully concealed joy.

“Captain Aidan, ‘tis good to see you again, sir.” Joran stood up quickly, scattering papers to the floor.