“Then what are you doing here?” Mirya recoiled in horror. “You must be mad! If Marstel knew that you were alone in Hulburg, right here under his nose …”
“I’m here to kill Valdarsel. He’s the one who ordered Harmach Grigor’s death. There will be no more Hulmasters assassinated on his orders.” The thought brought another flash of anger, and he clenched his jaw. “I don’t doubt that Rhovann put him up to it, and I’ll deal with him in good time. But for now I’ll settle for delivering an unmistakable message to Rhovann and his pet harmach about sending monsters and murderers against my kin. There’s a price to be paid.”
Mirya pressed her lips together, thinking on Geran’s words. A few months earlier she’d found herself on Valdarsel’s bad side, and she had good reason to fear the priest. “I wouldn’t miss him, and that’s the truth of it, but I don’t know if you’ll be able to put him under your blade. He spends most of his time in his new temple, and he’s got a strong guard with him whenever he leaves it.”
“New temple? What new temple?”
“They call it the Temple of the Wronged Prince,” Mirya replied. She shook her head. “I never thought I’d see the day when such a thing as a temple dedicated to Cyric might be built in Hulburg, but it’s happened.”
Geran frowned. Cyric was a dark god, but his doctrines embraced concepts such as ambition, change, and revolution-things that often appealed to folk who were poor and desperate. He suspected that Cyric’s priests downplayed the darker aspects of their Black Sun when recruiting from the wretched masses. “Where is this place?”
“On Gold Street, near the Middle Bridge. There are guards in black mail who stand by its doors both night and day, and acolytes are always about the public rooms. The priests’ quarters and the temple’s inner sanctum aren’t open to any but the servants of the Black Sun.” Mirya paused, studying him. “I’ve heard that there may be other guardians inside-devils or demons or some other such things. If you mean to face him, it might be better to wait for him to come out, guards or not.”
“That may be,” Geran replied. “Still … are there any other entrances?”
“Aye, there’s a small garden behind the building. A gate from the alleyway leads to the garden, and there’s a door leading in from the garden. It’s guarded by some sort of magical glyph.”
“I might be able to deal with that …” Geran mused aloud. Then a sudden thought struck him, and he looked sharply at Mirya. “Wait a moment. How do you know so much about this Temple of the Wronged Prince? Did Valdarsel have his ruffians drag you in?”
“No, nothing like that!” Mirya answered. She hesitated, looking away from him. “I’ve some … friends … who help me to keep an eye on things about town. We looked over the place a few days past, thinking that we might cause some mischief there. But as I said, it seemed too well protected to us, so we decided to leave it be.”
“Mirya, what have you been up to?”
“Marstel and his sellswords are running this town into ruin, Geran. We’re doing something about it. Hulburg is our home too, you know.”
“Do you have any idea how dangerous that sort of thing is?” he demanded. “Once you raise your hand against Marstel and his allies, you can never take it back. Didn’t you learn anything from what happened when you put your nose in Valdarsel and Rhovann’s business a few months ago? They’ll hang you for a rebel if they catch you!”
“If they catch me?” she said, bristling. “You’re the one skulking about in a disguise, and you’re the one person in all Faerun they’d most like to catch playing at spy! How can you tell me that what I’m doing is too dangerous?”
“This is different,” he retorted. “I have experience at this sort of thing. I know what I’m doing.”
“Maybe I know what I’m doing as well, Geran Hulmaster.”
Geran rose to reply in anger, but bit back on his words. He’d never get her to see that he was right by shouting at her; Mirya could be exceptionally stubborn when she set her mind on something, and this seemed like one of those times. He decided to try another tack. “Mirya … I understand that you love this land as much as I do,” he said. “But I beg you, don’t take chances! I couldn’t bear to see you hurt.”
She stood as well, and folded her arms like a battlement in front of her. “And why is that?” she asked in a sharp voice. “Don’t I have the right to choose my own risks?”
He retreated from her, pacing around the small room. “Don’t be foolish,” he said. “You know that you’re dear to me.”
“I know no such thing,” she snapped. “Oh, I know that I matter to you. You followed me to the Tears of Selune. But why, Geran? Ten years ago you loved me. It ended. What is it that you think you still owe me? Why is it so important to you what happens to me now?”
“Because I-” he began, and stopped himself, unable to finish. He’d been about to say because I love you. He stood in silence, stunned to find those words on the tip of his tongue, and aghast at the realization that he’d come within a breath of speaking them aloud. He had no right to say any such thing to her. Ten years before he’d been a young, callous fool who broke her heart when he set out to make some kind of mark in the world outside Hulburg. She could never trust him with her heart again, and he could never ask it of her. He drew a deep breath, and found something else to say. “Because I owe it to Jarad,” he said instead. “He’d want me to look after you and Selsha. I failed him once when I left Hulburg to fall into the state it did while I was gone. I don’t want to fail him a second time.”
“Because you owe it to Jarad,” Mirya repeated. She frowned, and finally shook her head, smoothing her skirts with her hands. “Very well, then. You can stay as long as you like, but I think you’re wise to avoid being seen as you come or go. I don’t know how, but I’ve a feeling that Erstenwold’s is being watched. I can show you a path in the buried streets if that would help.”
He looked down at the floor. Mirya was no fool. She knew that he hadn’t been honest, although he hoped that she didn’t know exactly how. “I thank you for the offer, but I think I’d better be going. I don’t want to tempt fortune by hiding here, and I’ve got a few more errands today.”
She paused by the door and looked back at him. “We’re ready to do what needs to be done. I can pass the word to the folk who are still loyal to the Hulmasters.”
He nodded. “My thanks. I’ll remember that when the time comes.” Her frown softened just a little, and she ducked back out into the hallway to return to her business. He stood in the storeroom for a moment, listening to her voice coming from the front counter as she resumed her day. Did I mean what I almost said? he wondered. He looked inward, and found nothing he could make sense of, only a tangle of old memories and new friendship. Shaking his head, angry at his own foolishness, he deliberately set them all aside. “I have no time for that sort of nonsense,” he muttered. He moved over to the counting room’s window, fixed his mind on the empty tinsmith’s shop down the alleyway, and teleported himself out of Erstenwold’s. In a matter of moments he slipped back out onto Fish Street and continued along his way.
The afternoon was drawing on, and he decided that he was hungry. He headed back toward the Winterspear along Market Street, and found a little smokehouse near Angar Square where he was able to buy a simple meal for a silver coin. When he finished, he turned his steps toward Gold Street and hurried past the Cyricist temple. It was much as Mirya had described it, a gaudy new structure rising from the middle of an old craftsman’s district on the edge of the Tailings. Black-clad guards stood by the open doors, doing their best to remain motionless and imposing despite the bitter weather. He was careful not to stare too closely as he walked past, giving the place what he hoped would seem like a cursory glance. He was tempted to wander in the open door and see what the public areas looked like, but decided against it; no doubt he’d be approached by someone if he did go in, and the whole point of a disguise was to avoid attracting attention. Instead he went back over the Middle Bridge-this one was watched by the gray-skinned warriors too-and climbed up the Easthill toward the better homes that sat along the hillside of the headland that formed the eastern half of Hulburg’s harbor. A few minutes’ walk brought him in sight of his goal, a house that was anchored at one corner by a small round tower.