* * * * *

The complex was impressive—more like an enclosed town than a simple holdfast—surrounded by a thick wall perhaps twenty feet high, fashioned of the sand-colored stone that abounded in the hills. Watchtowers rose from the corners, and a large keep stood at the summit of the hill. To the north, outside of the complex itself, was an old, weath­ered tower.

Bronwyn rode to the gate and was cordially, if distantly, received by the followers of Tyr. An elderly knight showed her to a guest chamber in one of the smaller buildings that clustered around a large, open arena of hard-packed dirt. The room was sparsely furnished, and she wondered if she would rate better quarters if the paladins knew of her her­itage. But at the moment, the wisest course seemed to be to keep her identity private. She’d left her ring hidden back at the camp rather than risk alerting the paladins and losing the ring in the process.

“Good thinking,” Ebenezer had approved. “Not a good thing, to be putting too much trust in humans.”

It had been on the tip of Bronwyn’s tongue to ask the dwarf what exactly he thought she was. But in recent weeks, she herself had not had many experiences with humankind that she could claim as proof against his cyni­cal assessment.

A bell rang from one of the keep towers. Bronwyn heard a flurry of activity and glanced out her window. Several dozen young men were gathering in the large, open field that formed the heart of the monastery. They stripped to the waist and formed pairs, then fell to practicing with swords, staves, and a wide variety of smaller weapons. All of them fought well—impressively so. There was not a single man whom Bronwyn felt she could take in a fair fight. On the other hand, she got the impression that any one of them might be susceptible to some creatively dirty tactics.

Presently, one of the young paladins directed her to Mas­ter Laharin Goldbeard. She made her way up to his austere study and politely hailed him.

The man looked up, and his eyes widened. “Gwenidale,” he breathed.

It was not a common name, and Bronwyn had heard it only once in twenty years—when Hronulf spoke of her mother.

Bronwyn had not intended to reveal her identity, but she quickly adapted her course. “Not Gwenidale, but her daugh­ter,” she said. “My name is Bronwyn.”

The knight recovered his composure and came toward her, both hands outstretched. He took her hands and spread them wide, as a family friend might do to a child whose growth he wished to fondly measure. “It is you, beyond doubt. Little Bronwyn! When last I saw you, you were no more than three. By the Hammer of Tyr, child, you have become the very image of your mother.”

She found herself liking Laharin and thought she would have even if he had not spoken of her mother. The man seemed to possess more warmth and kindness than any of the other paladins she had met—her father included.

“Come, sit down,” he urged. “You must tell me everything. How is it that you are come home to us at last?”

“You know about the raid on my village. I was lost—sold into slavery. For years I tried to find out about my family, but I was too young to remember Recently I finally learned my father’s name.”

Deep sadness flooded the knight’s face. “Too late,” he mourned. “Your father was a great man. A good friend.”

“I met him,” Bronwyn admitted. “I went to Thornhold to see him.”

Sudden light dawned on the knight’s face. “You met with Sir Gareth in Waterdeep, did you not? I did not until this moment make the connection. Child, the brotherhood is gravely concerned about you. It was thought that you were in collusion with those who seized the fortress, that you took with you an artifact sacred to our order. How is it that you escaped the destruction?”

“There was an escape shoot. My father insisted that I take it.”

“Ah. That explains all. Hronulf would know of such. The fortress has been in your family for many years.”

This created an opening Bronwyn hadn’t considered using until this moment. “It was Hronulf’s wish that I come to you, Master Laharin. He said I should avail myself of your good council regarding the future of my family.. . .“ She let her voice trail off uncertainly and dropped her eyes as if she were overcome with maidenly modesty.

“Ah.” Laharin clearly understood Hronulf’s thinking. “Yes, you must find a suitable match. There are several young men here who might suit. I will think on the matter.”

“In the meanwhile, can you teach me of my heritage? I am not accustomed to being the daughter of a paladin. If I am to be a mother of paladins, I should know more about the order.”

“I will show you Summit Hall, and gladly!”

Laharin rose and tucked her hand into his arm. Together they strolled through the fortress. He showed her the training field, the barracks where the young men slept, stables filled with beautiful horses, armories well stocked with nearly every weapon Bronwyn could name. There was a library with some old books and maps. “You may read anything here, at your leisure,” Laharin assured her. “All the stories and lore must be passed to your sons. Do you remember hearing the tales?”

“Vaguely,” she admitted. “Just the shape and rhythm of them.” Her eyes followed a thin boy who bustled down the hall toward them. She judged him to be a page by the cut of his tunic, and the pile of linen in his arms. He was thin and boasted a mop of bright auburn hair and a liberal sprin­kling of freckles on his face and bare arms. He looked all of eight years old.

Laharin followed her gaze, noting the puzzlement in her eyes. “The lads who wish to enter Tyr’s service come to us before they have reached ten winters, and stay usually ten years.”

“So young....”

He gave her a look that was both stern and sympathetic. “It is the way of men to dedicate their lives to the service of Tyr. Women, I suspect, have a harder task. They must dedi­cate their sons.”

Bronwyn murmured something suitably docile and fol­lowed the knight down a long, narrow flight of stone steps into what appeared to be a dungeon. There were a few cells, none of which were occupied, and at the end of the hall another flight leading further down. Laharin took a torch from a wall bracket and bid her follow.

“This tunnel leads to the kitchen cellars,” he explained.

She pointed to a low, curved wooden door. The latch was chained and locked, rusted almost to dust. “What is that?”

“Nothing of great consequence. It is a tunnel leading to the old tower outside the walls. No one has used it for cen­turies.”

This struck Bronwyn as very strange thinking indeed. “You are not afraid that someone will gain access to the monastery through the tower?”

“No,” he said shortly. He squared his shoulders and smoothed the frown from his face with visible effort. “The tower is clearly visible from the guard tower. No one has gone in or out for centuries.”

“Then why—”

“It is part of our heritage,” he broke in. “Few know this story, but you should hear it. The tower once belonged to the brother of Samular, a wizard of great power known as Ren­wick ‘Snowcloak’ Caradoon. It was Samular’s wish that a training monastery be built around that tower, and that it remain undisturbed for all time in honor of his brother, who died in battle as bravely as any knight.”

At least, that was Samular’s story, Bronwyn thought as she recalled what Khelben had told her about this place, and what she should look for. “That is an inspiring story. Samular knew the value of family,” she said, arranging her face in a wide-eyed, guileless expression.

Laharin gave her an odd look, as if he was suddenly con­sidering how much Bronwyn truly knew about her family’s value. The moment passed swiftly, chased by a glimmer of self-reproach. He was not a man, Bronwyn noted with a touch of guilt, who was often or easily suspicious. She truly hated abusing his good will. On the other hand, she was not ready to turn herself and the power of her family heritage— whatever that might be—over to the order.