Ruins of Myth Drannor by Carrie Bebris Page B

get all she could of both.
    Around his neck she found a bronze medallion on a leather strap. Etched into it was a symbol: a ball of flame with sinister eyes hovering above a four-pointed reptilian claw. She removed the medallion and stuffed it in one of her belt pouches, then assessed the rest of his body. The minimal clothing left few places to carry items, but she did find a thin key hanging from a chain on his belt. The end of the key had the image of a circle within an arch engraved on it.
    “When I noticed you missing, I knew I’d find you here.” Corran’s voice did not surprise her. Though she could tell he’d tried to move silently, she’d heard him approach. “Are you nearly finished robbing the dead? The others are waiting.”
    She did not bother to look up from her task. Her back still to him, she slipped the key into a hidden sheath in her right sleeve. “I happen to be searching for clues to what this cult is all about—something you seem to have forgotten in your haste to save a half-witted halfling from himself.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    His tone of sarcastic disbelief pushed her over the edge. She whirled to face him. “What in the Abyss is your problem?”
    He regarded her stoically. “My problem?”
    She glared at him, her face hot with anger she could no longer hold in check. “You have done nothing but judge and insult me from the moment we met.”
    “You represent everything I abhor.”
    “How can I? You don’t even know me.”
    “Are you not a thief? I have yet to encounter one who wasn’t a selfish opportunist. Your behavior thus far has done little to change my mind.”
    Herbehavior? She had been selfish to try talking the party out of a quest that amounted to a suicide pact? She had been opportunistic in helping them defeat Preybelish? Sir Sanctimonious would do better to examine his own conduct.
    “I have yet to meet a paladin who wasn’t judgmental and self-righteous,” she snapped. “Seeing only my actions and hearing only my words, you presume to know my motives. Well, you don’t know as much as you think you do, Corran D’Arcey.”
    He raised his brows patronizingly. “No?”
    “No. You’re a weak leader, a spiritual hypocrite, and a lousy human being.” Expecting him to dismiss her reproof as he usually dismissed her, she tried to push her way past him.
    He grabbed her arm, forcing her to stay. “It reflects poor breeding, Kestrel, to walk away in the middle of a conversation. On what do you base those criticisms?”
    Why did his insults still hold the power to rankle? Their frequency should have rendered her immune by now. “You’ve appointed yourself the leader of this mission, yet you allow your prejudice to cloud your decisions, ignoring or underusing my skills to the detriment of the party.” Despite her ire, her voice held steady. “For someone who professes humility in the service of his god, you have demonstrated precious little of it among your fellow mortals. And for someone who seeks to better understand the ways of the divine, you know very little about the human condition. I doubt very much that the third son of Baron Whoever-the-hell has ever wanted for anything or can comprehend what desperation can drive a person to do.”
    There—she’d said it all, and her heart hammered in her chest with the rush of having finally confronted him. To her delight he looked as if he’d been slapped. She shook her arm loose, turned her back on him, and went to join the others.
    With minimal travel time, the party descended to the dungeon’s lowest level and found the old dwarven treasury. The stone door stood ajar, its engraved glyph—a circle within an arch—desecrated. Through the graffiti, however, Kestrel noted that the original symbol matched that on the key she’d taken from the dead cult sorcerer.
    A muffled voice, unmistakably Nottle’s, came from within, promising riches in exchange for release. “Gems… I got a nice collection o’gems. Or if it’s weapons ye want—”
    “Oh, stuff a sock in it,” responded