"Well, don't look at me," Muragh said defensively. "I was just a lowly priest of Lathander in life."

The others turned their eyes toward Corin. The young lord looked up in shock, his face drawn.

"No," he whispered hoarsely, slowly shaking his head back and forth. "Not me…"

Artek quickly moved forward and knelt besideb Corin. "You know how to play lanceboard, don't you?" he asked intently.

Corin opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. It didn't matter. Artek already knew the answer. Corin had recognized the gameboard and the playing pieces. Like every noble child, he had learned to play the game.

"You have to help us, Corin," Artek said gravely. He gripped the young man's shoulders. "You have to help us get across the room. You're the only one who can do it."

Corin tried to back away, but Artek's strong hands held him firmly. "But I can't," the nobleman gasped. "Don't you understand? If I make a mistake, you'll all be killed."

"And if you don't try, we'll all die for certain," Artek growled.

Tears sprang into Corin’s eyes, along with a look of terror. "You don't understand. I can't do it. I tried… I tried to be worth something, but I failed. You said so yourself." He shook his head. "He was right. He was always right. I suppose I deserved it," Corin sobbed.

In sudden dread, Artek gazed at the noble. A coldness crept into his heart, and dark realization into his mind. He gripped the young man's shoulders more tightly, searching his frightened face. "What did he do to you, Corin?" Artek asked. "By all the gods, what did your father do to you?"

Beckla, Guss, and Muragh stared at them in shock. A low moan escaped Corin’s lips.

"Tell me!" Artek demanded, baring his white teeth.

This time he did not wait for an answer. With brutal force, he spun Corin around. He gripped the lord's dirty silk shirt in two hands and tore it apart

"Ur thokkar!" he swore in the language of orcs.

Crisscrossing the skin of Corin’s back were countless pale scars. Artek had seen enough thieves flogged in public squares to know what the raised weals were-lash marks. As a child, Artek had often received the cruel abuse of his father's tongue, and once or twice, Arturg had even struck him. But never this. Never had he suffered anything like this.

Stunned, Artek released Corin. The young lord pulled the tattered remains of his shirt back over his shoulders, concealing the scars once again. Hesitantly, he looked up with wounded eyes at Artek. For a moment, all Artek could see was a small, golden-haired boy in a corner, injured and afraid, trying with all his courage not to cry.

"I had to bear it," Corin said finally in a quiet voice, barely a whisper. "I couldn't weep. I couldn't resist. I had to bear it because if I did, then maybe he would love me."

Trembling, Corin continued, as if words long dammed up inside were now rushing from him of their own volition. The others could only listen in growing horror. "I was the youngest of three sons, you see. Corlus, my eldest brother, was to inherit the Silvertor estate. My other brother, Cordair, was the most like my father, being skilled at arms and gambling, and well liked by other men. And then there was me.

"My mother died in childbirth when I was born. I think my father always blamed me for that. At least, I used to tell myself that he did. That way it all made some sort of sense-there was a reason that nothing I could ever say or do pleased him." As he spoke, Corin kept his gaze on the floor. "Most of the time he just ignored me and kept busy with Corlus and Cordair. But once a moon or so, he would come home reeking of wine, and feeling sour-tempered from losing at gambling. He would roar for me at the top of his lungs, and I didn't dare refuse to come. I would And him in his chamber, his riding whip in his hands. That was when…"

Corin suddenly looked up at the others. A smile twisted his lips. "Fate is strange, isn't it? Who would have thought that my father would outlive my brothers? But Corlus died of the red fever, and Cordair got a knife in the heart when he was caught cheating at dice in a tavern by the harbor. Then this winter my father finally died. The physicians said it was the drink that did it. I came to him at his deathbed. And do you know what he told me? 'You are the one I should have outlived.' That was all he said. Then he died." Corin’s gaze returned to his shoes.

"My father's death left me as the sole heir to the Silvertor legacy. And to his seat on the Circle of Nobles. Our House is one of the oldest in the city, and there has always been a Silvertor on the Circle-the vote is a mere formality. I suppose I should have been happy. But I wasn't." He clenched his hands into fists. "I didn't -want his House. I didn't want his blasted seat on the Circle. I could never please my father. How could I possibly please all of the other nobles in Waterdeep?"

Forcibly, he unclenched his hands and let out a weary sigh. "The truth is, when Lord Darien Thai invited me on the hunt into Undermountain, I secretly hoped something would happen to me-something bad. I told myself it would all be so much easier that way." Wiping the tears from his cheeks, he looked at Artek. "And here I am," he finished softly. "I know you can never forgive me for getting you into this, Artek. But I want you to know that I am sorry-terribly sorry."

For a long time, Artek could say nothing. All this time he had thought of Corin as a mere nuisance, as an object to be rescued and nothing more. In that, he had been no better than the young lord's father. Perhaps worse. He of all people should have known better. He knew what it was like to be scorned by one whose love he craved; he knew what it was like to learn to loathe himself. If Corin’s father were still alive, Artek would have vowed to kill him. But vengeance cannot be gained from the dead, and the living are left to bear the scars inflicted.

At last Artek drew in a deep breath. Maybe it was too late for him, but Corin was young. Maybe there was still time for the young man to find a sort of healing, to be whole. Artek reached out and gripped Corin’s shoulders. He gazed into the young man's eyes and would not let him look away.

"Listen to me, Corin," he said solemnly. "Listen to me, because I speak the truth. I was wrong. Your father was wrong. You aren't worthless. You have to believe that. I know that there are voices inside you, voices that tell you otherwise, but you have to stop listening to them because they, too, are wrong. No one deserves what happened to you, Corin. Do you hear me? No one."

At last Corin stopped struggling and held still within Artek's grasp. Artek kept talking.

"Don't you see, Corin? We need you. All of us. You're the only one who can get us across that lance-board. You're the only one who can help us." Black eyes bore into clear blue ones. "Please," he whispered. "Won't you try?"

For a long moment, Corin sat as if frozen, staring with unseeing eyes. Artek despaired, fearing his words had fallen upon deaf ears. Then Corin’s pale visage seemed to melt, and he blinked, drawing in a shuddering breath. At last he nodded. "I can't promise anything," he said in a hoarse voice. "But I will try."

' Artek could not suppress a toothy grin. He encircled Corin in his strong arms, embracing him tightly. The young man stiffened. Then, tentatively, he lifted his arms to return the embrace.

"Excuse me, Artek," Corin gasped after a time, "but I'd like to breathe now."

"Oh, sorry!" Artek exclaimed, releasing the young man from his grip.

Corin stood, smiling shyly. "Actually, you're all rather in luck, you know. Though my father never placed much stock in it-it wasn't a blood sport, you see-I was something of a champion at lanceboard among my peers." He clapped his hands together. "Now, let's get started. We have a game to play."