The time for eveningfeast had passed, but the travelers walked on, determined to reach Shadowdale before the night was through. The spell that had spirited them from certain death in Spiderhaunt Woods had deposited the adventurers almost two days' journey ahead on their route.
Midnight, Kelemvor, and Thurbrand walked together, as did Cyric and the other surviving members of the Company of Dawn, Isaac and Vogt. Adon walked alone, thinking of everything he had lost.
"They died bravely," Kelemvor said to Thurbrand at one point.
"That is little comfort," Thurbrand said, memories of the last quest he had shared with Kelemvor edging into his thoughts. It had been many years ago, but the results had been much the same: Thurbrand and Kelemvor had lived. Everyone else had died.
Cyric had a confused, haggard look as he walked through the dale. It was as if he'd been forced to confront some great truth, and the knowledge had left him weak and trembling. When he spoke, it was in a soft, almost quavering voice.
Adon, on the other hand, didn't speak at all. There was nothing for him to do as he walked, nothing to fill his head but his own unwelcome thoughts. And as he walked on through the night, the cleric's relentless fears drove him down into a white-faced, trembling shadow of the man he'd once been.
But not all of the adventurers were grim-faced and mournful as they walked toward Shadowdale. Midnight and Kelemvor behaved as if the worst was behind them.
They laughed and exchanged taunts as they had earlier in their journey. Every time they smiled or laughed, though, one of their companions would frown at them, as if they were interrupting a funeral with their mirth.
Eventually, however, most of the heroes relaxed as they trekked through the countryside south of Shadowdale. The green, flowing hills and rich, soft earth of the dale's outlying districts were wondrous to behold. Even the air was sweet, and the harsh winds that had plagued the heroes ever since they entered the Stonelands became light breezes that caressed the travelers, enticing them to walk ever faster in their pursuit of sanctuary.
It was very late when they reached the bridge that spanned the Ashaba and led into Shadowdale. The tiny, sparkling lights they had seen in the distance now revealed themselves to be glowing fires set at the far end of the bridge. Guards armed with crossbows and wearing bright silver armor walked back and forth on the bridge and warmed their hands by the fires from time to time.
Kelemvor and Midnight walked beside Thurbrand as the party approached the bridge. As they got close to the river, however, something moved in the bushes. The heroes turned and reached for their weapons, but stood still when they saw six carefully aimed crossbows sticking from the bushes on both sides of the bridge. The steel-tipped arrows gleamed in the moonlight.
Thurbrand frowned. "I believe this is where we hold and state our business." He turned to the men who crawled out of the bushes. "Isn't that so?"
"A fair beginning," one of them said.
"I am Thurbrand of Arabel, leader of the Company of Dawn. We have come to gain audience with Mourngrym on matters most pressing."
The guards shifted nervously and whispered to each other. "What matters?" a guard said after a moment.
Midnight's face got red, and she moved closer to the guard. "On matters pertaining to the safety of the Realms!" she cried. "Is that not urgent enough?"
"All well and good to say, but are you able to prove it?" The guard moved toward Thurbrand and held out his hand.
"Your charter?"
"Certainly," Thurbrand said and handed the guard a rolled up parchment. "Signed by Myrmeen Lhal."
The guard examined the parchment.
"We have suffered many casualties in Spiderhaunt Woods," Thurbrand said.
"These are your survivors? What are their names?" The guard said.
Thurbrand turned to the two actual survivors of his company. "Vogt and Isaac," Thurbrand said.
Kelemvor and Midnight exchanged glances.
"And the others?" The guard said.
Thurbrand pointed at Midnight. "She is Gillian. The rest are Bohaim, Zelanz, and Welch."
The guard passed the charter back to Thurbrand. "Very well, you may pass," he said, then backed away. The guards all disappeared into the shadows once more.
The travelers crossed the bridge carefully, and when they reached the other shore, Thurbrand looked to Kelemvor.
"Quite an interesting place already," Thurbrand said.
An armed contingent, patrolling by the bridge, stopped when they saw the adventurers, and the ritual of questions, answers, and documentation was repeated. This time the soldiers "offered" to escort the tired travelers to the Twisted Tower, despite Midnight's anxious cries about Elminster.
"Protocol," Cyric whispered. "Think of your last meeting with the mage. Would it not go easier if the path were laid down for you by the local lord?"
Midnight said nothing.
As they approached the Twisted Tower, Cyric noted that the small shops and houses that lined the path seemed deserted. However, there were fights in the distance, and the sounds of activity from a few streets over. A wagon loaded with bales of hay moved across the road. Another wagon, filled with livestock, came behind it. Soldiers escorted both wagons.
"If they are moving livestock at this time of night," Cyric said to Midnight, "they are probably preparing the town for war. I fear your warning from Mystra about Bane's plans comes too late."
As they got closer to the Twisted Tower, the heroes could see that torches lined the stone walls of the square, squat building. The torches were patterned oddly, though, and they followed the odd curvatures of the tower as they spiraled up one side of the building, vanished, then reappeared higher and higher until the lights gave way to shadowy mist that even the unusually bright moon could not penetrate.
More guards waited at the entrance to the tower. The guards spoke for a moment with the heroes' armed escort. Then one guard, probably a captain of the watch, whistled long and loud. As the heroes and the guards waited for whatever or whoever it was that the captain had summoned, Adon turned and started to wander off down the street. A guard rushed to intercept the cleric, then steered him back with the others. Adon sullenly complied.
A young man dressed in the livery of a herald appeared at the door. He was still bleary eyed with sleep, but he listened to the guardsman as politely as he could, hiding his yawns behind a ruffled sleeve when possible.
The herald led Kelemvor, Thurbrand, and the others through a long corridor, and soon they stood before a heavy wooden door with three separate locking systems. Cyric casually studied the locks as Kelemvor grumbled impatiently. Finally the door was opened and the herald, a tall, lean man with salty brown hair and a thick mustache and beard, turned to address the travelers.
"Lord Mourngrym will see you in here," he said simply. Kelemvor caught a glimpse of the poorly lit interior of the room. As he had feared, it was some type of cell with bare floors and chains hanging from the walls. The fighter's eyes became slits as he turned to the herald.
"We desire an audience with Lord Mourngrym, not the rats of Shadowdale. If he cannot see us tonight, then we will return in the morning."
The herald did not flinch. "Please wait inside," he said.
Midnight brushed past Kelemvor and entered the chamber. The moment she crossed the threshold, there was a rippling in the shadows and she disappeared.
"No!" Kelemvor shouted, and leaped through the door after her, only to find himself in the throne room of the Twisted Tower.
Torches had been lit within the throne room, and Midnight could see that the finely crafted plasterwork on the otherwise bare walls spoke of many battles and paid homage to those who had died in the service of the dale. Red velvet curtains covered the one wall devoid of plasterwork. The curtains rested behind the two black marble thrones that stood across the room from the entrance. In all, the hall was large enough to entertain visiting emissaries, but it wasn't huge and overly ornate like the halls of Arabel's palace.
At the far end of the chamber stood an older man whose physique did not reveal his advancing years. His build was similar to Kelemvor's, but the heavy lines marking his face revealed him to be at least twenty years older than the fighter. He was dressed in shining silver armor and a jewel-encrusted sword hung at his side. The man looked up from a long planning table that was strewn with maps and smiled warmly at the heroes as they entered the hall.
There was a noise at the outer wall of the chamber, a thump followed by a curse. "And I say he did move the bloody door!" A series of taps were heard, then a hand emerged from the seemingly solid wall, fingers extended tentatively. A face followed, then vanished. "I want an envoy sent to Elminster come first light. I will not be held captive by his magic!" Silence. "No, I am not just being cranky!" A sigh. "Yes, Shaerl. I will be up shortly, my wife."
A figure emerged from the wall just as the rest of the adventurers, accompanied by two guards, appeared behind Kelemvor and Midnight. The figure turned, looked at his guests, and froze. He was extremely handsome, with thick black hair, deep azure eyes, and a square-set jaw. His clothing was a glaring testament to the lateness of the hour. He wore a frock that revealed his bare arms, hairy bare legs, and bare feet ending in nervously twitching toes. His arms were thick and strong, his muscles well-tended. A crimson band encircled his right upper arm. He cut a glance to the older warrior, who merely shrugged.
"I wasn't expecting guests," the black-haired man said. Then he straightened up, cleared his throat, and flashed a smile. He approached the travelers. "I am Mourngrym, lord of this place. How can I help you?"
Kelemvor was about to speak, but a guard leaned toward the fighter, his axe held in a threatening manner. Mourngrym scratched the side of his face as he motioned for the travelers to hold for but a moment, then he took the guard aside.
"Good Yarbro," Mourngrym said. "Do you remember our little discussion concerning the down side of over-zealous behavior?"
Yarbro swallowed. "But, milord, they have the look of vagrants! They have no gold, no supplies, they walked into town, and their only form of identification is a charter which is almost certainly stolen!"
"And how was it that my men found you on the outskirts of Myth Drannor all of two winters ago?"
"That's different," Yarbro said.
Mourngrym sighed. "We will talk again."
Yarbro nodded, then turned to leave the chamber with the other guard. Kelemvor was relieved to see the guards go. It would have been difficult explaining why they had given the guards names other than their own to gain access to the tower, and they might have been forced to keep the adopted names so as not to arouse suspicion.
The older warrior stood at Mourngrym's side. A look passed between Kelemvor and the old man as Yarbro brushed past the fighter on his way out. They both grinned. "This is Mayheir Hawksguard, acting captain of arms."
Thurbrand winced. "Acting captain of arms? What happened to the old one?"
"I would rather not discuss that until I understand your purpose for being here," Mourngrym said as he turned away. "What happened to the lot of you?"
All but Adon surged forward, and six versions of what they had witnessed erupted simultaneously. Mourngrym rubbed his tired eyes and glanced at Hawksguard.
"Enough!" Hawksguard shouted, and there was silence in the chamber.
"You there," Mourngrym said to the sullen, scar-faced man. "I would hear your version of the tale."
Adon stepped forward, then told all he knew of the events that plagued the Realms in the least amount of words possible. Mourngrym leaned against his throne and frowned.
"You might have noticed a few of the precautions that have already been put into effect around here," Mourngrym said. "It is feared that Shadowdale will be under siege in a matter of days." Mourngrym looked to Thurbrand. "To answer your earlier questions, the old captain of arms infiltrated Zhentil Keep and nearly died getting us this information. He is in his quarters, recovering from his injuries.
"Hawksguard will lead your delegation to Elminster after morningfeast. Tonight you are my guests." Mourngrym yawned. "Now if you will excuse us, I believe there were other reasons I was woken from the tender embrace of sorely needed sleep. We will speak further come morning."
Each of the adventurers were then led to private chambers, where steaming baths and soft beds lay in wait. Midnight went out to get some air, and after walking around near the tower, she returned to her room to study her spells. But as she opened her door, she heard a slight splash. Someone was in her room, waiting for her to return.
She thrust open the door and flashed her lantern into the bedroom. There was a startled yelp as the lantern illuminated a large man leaping out of the room's bathtub. He ran for his clothes and weapons, which lay in a heap nearby.
"By the gods," Kelemvor muttered as he saw who the intruder was. "Midnight."
Kelemvor shook himself off like a cat, then picked up a towel. He gingerly dried his chest, where the cut he received fighting the white spider had healed, but was still slightly tender. Midnight set her lantern on a small table across from the bed. She held open her arms. "Come here, Kel. I'll help you with that."
Even in the dimly lit room, she could see his grin.
In the other chambers of the Twisted Tower, the night did not pass so peacefully. Cyric was haunted by nightmarish visions of Brion's death, which played over and over in his head as he slept. A number of times Cyric cried out and woke up, sweating. And each time he went back to sleep, the nightmare returned.
In another room, Adon stood at the window and looked out on the rooftops of Shadowdale. All around the town, he saw the spires of temples, although he could not discern what gods they were a tribute to. Come morning, when a rather plain serving girl named Neena knocked on his door, he was still standing at the window. She entered and lay down the clothes he had given the servants for cleaning.
"Morningfeast is due to commence shortly, good sir," she said.
Adon ignored the girl. Brushing the bangs out of her eye, she touched Adon's shoulder then drew back as he spun on her, his hands set to deliver a killing blow. When he saw it was only a servant, he faltered and stood silently. Neena looked at the cleric's face, then turned away respectfully.
To Adon's failing heart, the gesture was worse than any physical blow.
"Leave me," he said, then he prepared himself for morningfeast.
Kelemvor was standing across the hall from Adon's door as Neena left. He heard the cleric dismiss her and shook his head. Adon won't be healed inside from that scar for a long time, the fighter thought as he turned to knock on Thurbrand's door.
"They're about to serve morningfeast," Kelemvor said when Thurbrand finally opened the door.
"I've already been informed," the bald man said. "You may leave now."
Kelemvor pushed past the fighter and shut the door behind him. "We should talk… about you and your men."
"Men die," Thurbrand said and sat down on the bed. "Those are the fortunes of war." The bald man kicked his sword across the room and looked up at Kelemvor. "I'm leaving, Kel. Vogt and Isaac are coming with me."
"Aye. I expected as much."
Thurbrand ran his hand over his bald head. "I'll go back to Arabel and tell Myrmeen Lhal what I've seen. I'm certain she'll drop the charges."
"Charges? I thought we were wanted for questioning!"
Thurbrand shrugged. "I didn't want to alarm you," he said. "Perhaps I should just tell her you're all dead. Would you prefer that?"
"Do as you will. But that's not what I came here to talk to you about." Kelemvor looked at Thurbrand's sword, now laying in the corner. "You blame yourself for what happened in Spiderhaunt Woods."
"It doesn't matter, Kel. It's over. The blood of my entire company is on my hands. Can you wash it away with your consoling words?" Thurbrand stood, walked to the corner, and picked up his sword. "I might as well have killed them myself." The bald man swung the sword halfheartedly in the air, as if to chase his thoughts away. "Besides," he said quietly, "there are many more deaths than theirs on my conscience. You know that."
Kelemvor said nothing.
Thurbrand grimaced. "I still see the faces of the men who died in my stead — in our stead, so many years ago, Kel. I still hear their screams." Thurbrand paused and looked up at Kelemvor. "Do you?"
"Sometimes," Kelemvor said. "We chose to survive, Thurbrand, and that's a difficult decision to live with. But what happened to our friends has nothing to do with the Company of Dawn. The company had no choice but to follow us into the woods. If they'd stayed on the plain, they'd all have died with no chance to fight back."
Thurbrand turned his back on Kelemvor. "Why are you so concerned about this?"
Kelemvor leaned against the door and sighed. "There was a girl — about the same as Gillian was — who started with us on our journey. Her name was Caitlan."
Thurbrand turned to look at Kelemvor, but the fighter was staring off into space, reliving Caitlan's death.
"She insisted on coming with us, and she died when I was supposed to be protecting her."
"And you feel that you're to blame," Thurbrand said.
Kelemvor let out a deep sigh. "I merely thought you might like to talk about the company."
"Gillian," Thurbrand said after a moment. "She seemed rather young to be an adventurer, didn't she?"
Kelemvor shook his head. "I've seen younger on the road."
Thurbrand closed his eyes. "She was filled with enthusiasm. Her youth… gave me back some of my own. I wanted — no, I needed her around. I was certain I could protect her."
A long silence hung over the room as both fighters thought about companions, some long dead, some dead only a few days. "It was her choice to come with you," Kelemvor said at last and turned to leave.
"And it's my choice to get out of Shadowdale before I end up dead, too," Thurbrand said softly. "I'll be away from here by highsun."
Kelemvor left the room without saying anything.
Hawksguard smiled and shook his head in disbelief. "What do you mean 'this is not a good time?' I haven't led these good people to Elminster's tower just to have them turned away."
"I'm sorry you bothered. You'll have to come back later. Elminster is conducting an experiment. You know how little it takes to arouse his anger if he is interrupted in such moments. Now I suggest you people move on, unless you wish to find yourselves transformed into horseflies, or receive some similar, unpleasant fate."
Lhaeo attempted to shut the door only to find an unusual doorjamb blocking the way. Hawksguard winced as the heavy door pressed against his foot with greater force than Elminster's scribe could ever apply. More of the sage's enchantments, he thought, then forced the door back a bit.
"Look here," Hawksguard said as Kelemvor appeared at his side and shoved at the front door with him. "I have an unhappy liege. If I have an unhappy liege, then you have an unhappy liege. And if we have an unhappy liege, then — "
Suddenly the door swung open wide, and Lhaeo moved out of its way. Hawksguard and Kelemvor were both tossed forward and fell in a tangle at the scribe's feet.
"Oh, let them in, lest he begin the sordid tale of woe all over again!" a familiar voice called out.
Midnight felt flushed with awe at the sound of Elminster's voice. She heard the sound of footsteps on rickety stairs growing louder. Then, a white-bearded sage appeared at the foot of the steps and fixed Midnight with his gaze. The number of lines surrounding his eyes seemed to double as he squinted, as if he doubted his senses.
"What? Ye again! I thought I had seen the last of ye in the Stonelands!" Elminster said. "Mourngrym sent word that someone with a message of importance would visit me. That's supposed to be ye?"
Cyric helped Kelemvor to his feet. Adon stood back and watched.
Midnight refused to allow her anger to get the better of her. "I carry the last words of Mystra, Goddess of Magic, as well as a symbol of her trust; it is an item she told me to give to you, along with her message."
Elminster frowned. "Why didn't ye tell me this when we first met?"
"I tried!" Midnight said.
"Obviously, ye didn't try hard enough," Elminster said as he turned back to the stairs and motioned for her to follow. "I don't suppose ye would consider leaving that troublesome entourage with Lhaeo while ye relate this vitally important information?"
Midnight drew a deep breath. "I don't suppose I would," she said. "They have seen what I have seen, and more."
The sage cocked his head to the side as he climbed the stairs. "Very well," he said. "But if they touch anything, they do so at their own risk."
"There are dangerous objects here?" Midnight said as she climbed the winding staircase behind the sage.
"Aye," Elminster said as he looked over his shoulder. "And I am the most dangerous of them all."
Then the sage of Shadowdale looked away and did not speak again until the heroes had left the stairs and entered his chamber.
Midnight was certain something would fall on her if she dared another step into the sanctum of the wizened sage. There was a window directly ahead, and the beams of sunlight that pierced the air beside her revealed a small army of dust particles floating in the air. There were parchments and scrolls, ancient texts and magical artifacts strewn about the modest quarters of the sage.
"Now," Elminster said. "Give me the details of thy involvement with the goddess Mystra. Then tell me her exact message, word for word."
Midnight related all that she had seen, starting with her brush with death on the road to Arabel and her salvation by Mystra, and finishing with the seeming destruction of the goddess at the hands of Helm.
"Hand me the pendant," Elminster said.
Midnight pulled the pendant over her head and gave it to the sage. Elminster passed the pendant over a beautiful glass orb that glowed with an amber cast and waited a moment. When nothing happened, the sage brought the pendant even closer to the orb, touching the cold metal of the star against the sphere, while holding the item as far from his body as possible. The globe had been designed to shatter if any powerful object was brought within its range, but nothing happened as the pendant touched it.
Elminster's eyes narrowed as he looked up. "Worthless," he said and dropped the pendant to the floor.
"There is no magic within this trinket." Elminster kicked the pendant across the floor. It landed in the corner and a cloud of dust rose. "Ye've been given my time and my patience," Elminster said. "Neither is to be trifled with, especially not in these trying times for the Dales."
"But there is powerful magic in the pendant!" Midnight said. "I've seen it. We all have!"
And soon the stories began to flow from both Cyric and Kelemvor. Elminster looked to Hawksguard wearily.
"That's all," Elminster said finally. "Ye may leave now, and rest assured that the protection of the Dales lays in the hands of those who think better than to waste the precious time of its defenders with tall tales and fantasies that ye cannot even substantiate."
Midnight stood, staring in shock at the old sage.
"Come on," Kelemvor said. "We've done all that we can here."
"Aye," Elminster said. "Begone!"
Suddenly the pendant shot from the corner and hung in the air beside the old sage. Elminster's gaze fixed on Midnight once more. She felt a cold wave of panic pass through her mind.
"A minor display of your magic does not interest me," Elminster said in a low and measured voice. "In fact, these days it's rather dangerous."
The pendant started to spin in the air. Sharp streaks of lightning played across its surface and began to radiate out from the star.
"What's this, then?" Elminster said.
There was a blinding flash of light, and a cocoon of blue-white lightning formed around the old sage, cutting him off from view. Something that looked like an amber whirlwind erupted within the cocoon, searing its edges. Seconds later, the cocoon dissolved in a puff of smoke and the amber streaks of light vanished.
"Perhaps we should talk further," Elminster said to Midnight as he snatched the pendant from the air.
Hawksguard moved forward.
"A word, great sage," he said, respectfully.
"Is it one that immediately comes to mind or must I guess?" the sage muttered. Hawksguard stopped for a moment, then laughed heartily. Elminster looked to the ceiling. "What? Can't ye see I'm busy?"
Hawksguard drew himself to attention. "Elminster, Lord Mourngrym would have a word or two with you about the defenses you have cluttered the Twisted Tower with."
"Would he now?" Elminster said. "Where is he? Show him in."
The muscles in Hawksguard's face twitched. "He's not here."
"That does present a problem, does it not?"
Hawksguard's face was turning red. "He sent me to fetch you, good sir."
"Fetch!? Am I a dog, then! And after all the help I've given that man!"
"Good Elminster, you turn my words against me!"
The sage thought about it for a moment. "I suppose I do at that. But I cannot leave here today. There are elements at work that I must watch carefully." Elminster gestured at Hawksguard. "Come close," he said. "I have a message for our liege."
The edges of Hawksguard's mouth twitched as he approached. "You're not going to tattoo it on my flesh, are you?"
"Of course not," Elminster said.
"Or change me into some unearthly beast, then set me to the winds that I may repeat the message to all I may find until I am at last brought before Lord Mourngrym?"
Elminster rubbed at his forehead and cursed. "Where did I get this reputation?" he said absently. Hawksguard was about to answer, but the mage's wrinkled finger pierced the air before him, entreating him for silence. Elminster gazed into Hawksguard's eyes.
"Tell him that I am terribly busy preparing the mystical defense of his kingdom. The wards I have placed in the Twisted Tower are for his own good, and he should accept them as such."
Hawksguard was sweating in his armor. "That is all?"
Elminster nodded. "The three of ye, come forward."
Kelemvor, Cyric, and Adon carefully navigated the length of the room.
"Each of ye has witnessed sights that very few will ever know. Where do ye stand on the defense of the Dales?"
The trio stood in place. Kelemvor looked to Midnight, who averted her eyes.
"Are ye deaf? Are you with the dale or not?"
Adon moved forward. "I wish to fight," he said. Elminster looked at the young cleric, intrigued.
"Do ye, now?"
Kelemvor looked to Midnight. Her gaze told him that she had no intention of leaving, even though she had fulfilled her agreement with the goddess. Anger coursed through him. He did not want to stay, but he could not bring himself to leave Midnight behind. "We've come this far. Bane tried to kill us all. I will fight if there is a reward in it for me," the fighter said at last.
"Ye will be rewarded," Elminster said coldly.
A cold hand clutched Cyric's heart as the silence in the small room grew to epic proportions. Midnight looked up at him. There was something in her eyes. Cyric thought of Tilverton, of how close they had become on their journey.
"I will fight," he said. Midnight looked away. "I have nothing better to do anyway."
Elminster glared at Cyric, then turned away. "All of ye have faced the gods and survived. Ye have seen their weaknesses first hand, as well as their strengths. That will be important in this battle. Those who fight must know that the enemy can be conquered, that even the gods may die."
Adon flinched.
Elminster spoke softly now. "Ye see, there are forces greater than man or god, just as there are worlds within, and worlds without…"
It was just after highsun that Hawksguard, Kelemvor, and Cyric left Elminster. Adon wanted to go with them, but even Kelemvor agreed that the cleric was in no condition for combat. Cyric had been amused by Adon's desire to spill blood, but he kept his amusement to himself. He knew that the cleric could not be trusted in a battle such as the one they faced; Adon seemed to care less and less for his own survival, and he would be the last man any soldier would want guarding his back.
Halfway to the Twisted Tower, Cyric started to question his own reasons for aiding the defense of the town. There was nothing for him here, except perhaps a quick death. If that were all he desired, there were easier ways to find it. A stroll down the streets of Zhentil Keep in the middle of the night was sure to reward him with such a fate. Or perhaps he wished to test his mettle against the god who attempted to slay him once already.
We four faced a god and survived — even without Mystra's assistance, Cyric thought. Imagine if we were successful in slaying a god! Our names would be sung in ballads that minstrels would recite for hundreds of years.
Elminster's words haunted Cyric even as they approached the Twisted Towers and sat waiting for Lord Mourngrym to make his appearance. Without the presence of the gods in the Planes, magical and physical laws were breaking down. All of the Realms might fall. What then might rise from the ashes? Cyric thought. And who would be the gods of that dark future?
Mourngrym appeared, and Hawksguard recited Elminster's words. Kelemvor and Cyric pledged their assistance, and by nightfall they had been given their parts to play in the battle. Kelemvor would be stationed with Hawksguard and the majority of Mourngrym's forces at the eastern border, where Bane's troops were expected to attack. Cyric was called to help defend the bridge at the Ashaba and to assist the refugees leaving via the river to seek sanctuary in Mistledale. Archers were already taking up positions in the forest between Voonlar and Shadowdale and traps were being laid for Bane's troops.
And though Mourngrym believed he had organized his forces in the most efficient way to counter the larger Zhentish army, the dalelord was concerned about Elminster's place in the battle to come.
"I suppose Elminster still believes the true battle will take place at the Temple of Lathander," Mourngrym said ruefully. "We need his help at the borders! By Tymora we've got to talk some sense into that man!"
"We would be the first to ever do so, I'm afraid," Hawksguard said, smiling broadly.
Mourngrym laughed. "Perhaps you're right. Elminster has always stood in defense of the Dales. But to catch just a glimmer of the man's reasoning before he chose to reveal it would be a prize I would cherish for the rest of my life!"
Both Kelemvor and Hawksguard broke into braying laughter at the dalelord's comments. Cyric just shook his head. At least Kelemvor wasn't being morose anymore. In fact, the fighter's camaraderie with Hawksguard almost made him pleasant to be around.
But Cyric wasn't much in the mood for the fighters' jokes, so he left the throne room quietly. The halls of the Twisted Tower rang with activity as the thief made his way back to his room to prepare for eveningfeast.
After he changed his clothes, the thief turned to leave his room. As he walked toward the door, his boot slid across a slick patch of wood on the floor. He regained his balance, then looked down. Had one of the clumsy cows they called 'serving girls' in the tower made a mess she was too dainty to clean up? Cyric wondered. There, in the center of the room, was a stain that looked like blood.
Cyric's fingers trembled as he reached down and touched the red stain. He smeared his finger in the liquid, then touched his finger to his tongue, just to see what the liquid was.
Something exploded in his skull, and Cyric felt his body fall backward into the far wall, then land on the bed. He was dimly aware of the damage he had caused to the wall and to himself, but his perceptions swam in a fantastic haze of sights and sounds. The thief was finding it hard to tell his delusions from reality.
He was only certain that someone else was entering the room, closing the door, and locking it.
And before he passed out, Cyric realized that the man was laughing.
The next thing the thief was aware of was an odd taste in his mouth, like bitter almonds. His throat was dry, and sweat poured into his eyes. The sound of his own breathing came to him: raspy and without steady rhythm. His skin felt as if it had been flayed. Sight and sound returned suddenly, and he found himself lying upon his bed. A gray-haired man sat on the edge of the bed, facing away from Cyric.
"Don't try to move yet," the man said. "You've had quite a shock."
Cyric attempted to speak, but his throat was raw and he began to cough, which only caused a greater pain.
"Settle back," the man said. Cyric felt as if something were pressing him back against the bed. "We have much to discuss. You won't be able to raise your voice above a whisper, but don't worry. My senses are quite acute."
"Marek," Cyric croaked. The voice was unmistakable. "It can't be! You were arrested in Arabel."
Marek turned to face Cyric. He shrugged. "I escaped. Have you ever heard of a dungeon that could hold me?"
"What are you doing here?" Cyric said, ignoring the man's boasts.
"Well…," Marek said, and rose from the bed. "I was on my way back to Zhentil Keep. I grew tired on the road. My documentation — the same documentation that gave me access to Arabel — was taken from a soldier outside Hillsfar. A professional mercenary, actually. He won't be missed.
"I claimed that I was on my way back to rejoin the conflict between Hillsfar and Zhentil Keep, which I assumed the people of Shadowdale would see as a worthwhile enterprise. My cover, I was certain, was assured. I didn't know that Shadowdale was preparing for a war of their own with Zhentil Keep, and the guards demanded I join their damned army!"
"What happened to your cache of magical items that you bragged about in Arabel? Couldn't you have used them to escape the guard?" Cyric said.
"I was forced to leave almost all of them behind in Arabel," Marek said. "Are you expecting me to attack you? Don't be foolish. I'm here to talk."
"How did you get into the Tower?"
"I walked in through the front door. Remember, I'm a member of the guard now."
"But how did you know I was here?"
"I didn't. This is all chance, as all of life really is. As the guards tried to convince me that joining their army, even if it wasn't my own idea, would be beneficial for me, they described a small adventuring troop that came to the dale and was welcomed into the Twisted Tower itself for their aid to the town. Amazingly enough, part of the party sounded very much like the band you left Arabel with. It really wasn't hard to find you after that.
"By the way, I apologize for the effects of the potion that laid you out. Actually, there was one magical item I had managed to retain — this locket," Marek said, and produced a solid gold locket that had been opened. A drop of red liquid that resembled blood fell from it and hit the floor. The liquid hissed as it touched the boards.
"I was shown to your room earlier today and told that I could wait for a few moments. When you didn't arrive, I became bored. I noticed that the catch on the locket seemed as if it might break. When I examined it, it did break and the potion spilled to the floor. And that's when you came in. Actually, I wasn't sure that it was you at first, so I hid in the closet. Then you tasted the potion, and, well, here you are."
"What do you intend to do?" Cyric said. "Will you expose me, as you did in Arabel?"
"Certainly not," Marek said. "If I do that, what's to stop you from exposing me? That, you see, is the reason for my visit. I merely wished for you to maintain your silence until after the battle."
"Why?"
"During the battle, I'll make my escape. Switch sides. Return to Zhentil Keep with the victors."
"The victors," Cyric said absently.
Marek laughed. "Look around you, Cyric. Do you have any idea how many men Zhentil Keep has mustered? Despite the preparations, and despite the advantage of the woods between here and Voonlar, Shadowdale doesn't have a chance. If you had any intelligence, you'd follow me out of here, follow right in my footsteps."
"So you have told me," Cyric said.
"I offer you salvation," Marek said. "I offer you a chance to return to the life that you were born for."
"No," Cyric said. "I'll never go back."
Marek shook his head sadly. "Then you will die on this battlefield. And for what? Is this your fight? What is your stake in all of this?"
"Something you wouldn't understand," Cyric said. "My honor."
Marek couldn't contain his laughter. "Honor? What honor is there in being a nameless, faceless corpse left to rot on a battlefield? Your days away from the Guild have left you a fool. I'm ashamed that I ever thought of you as a son!"
Cyric turned white. "What do you mean?"
"Just what I said! Nothing more. I took you in as a boy. Raised you. Taught you all you know," Marek sneered. "This is pointless. You're too old to change. So am I."
Marek turned to leave. "You were right, Cyric."
"About what?"
"In Arabel, when you said I acted on my own. You were right. The Guild doesn't care whether or not you ever return. It was only me that wanted you back. They'd have forgotten long ago that you ever existed had it not been for my insistence that we try to draw you back."
"And now?"
"Now I no longer care," Marek said. "You are nothing to me. No matter what the outcome of this battle, I never want to see you again. Your life is your own. Do as you will."
Cyric said nothing.
"The effects of the potion are disorienting. You might experience some delirium before your fever breaks." Marek took the locket and left it beside Cyric on the bed. "I wouldn't want you to dismiss our conversation as a fever dream in the morning."
Marek's hand had just closed over the doorknob when he heard movement from Cyric's bed. "Lay back down, Cyric. You'll hurt yourself," he said, just as Cyric's dagger entered his back.
The thief watched as his former mentor fell to the floor. Moments later Mourngrym and Hawksguard appeared at Cyric's door, along with a pair of guards.
"A spy," Cyric said hoarsely. "Tried to poison me… Came back to question me in return for the antidote. I killed him and took it." Mourngrym nodded. "You have served me well already, it seems."
The body was removed, and Cyric climbed back into bed. For a time, he was poised on the brink of fantasy as the poison from the locket coursed through his system. He seemed to be trapped, half awake, half asleep, and visions ran through his head.
He was a child on the streets of Zhentil Keep, alone, running from his parents as they sought to sell him into slavery to pay off their debts. Then he was standing before Marek and the Thieves' Guild as they passed judgement on him, a ragged, bloodied youth they had found on the streets, robbing to survive; their judgement made him a part of the Guild.
But of course Marek turned away when Cyric needed him the most — when he was marked for execution by the Guild and forced to flee Zhentil Keep.
Turning away.
Always turning away.
Hours passed and Cyric rose from the bed. The red haze lifted from before his eyes. His blood had cooled, his breathing became regular. He was too exhausted to stay awake, so he simply collapsed on the bed again and surrendered to the tender embrace of deep, dreamless sleep.
"I'm free," he whispered in the darkness. "Free…"
Adon left Elminster's abode late at night, at the same time as the scribe, Lhaeo. The old man had actually shown concern over Lhaeo's well-being as he sent the man off to contact the Knights of Myth Drannor. Magical communication with the east had been blocked, and armed with Elminster's wards, the scribe would have to travel by horse to deliver the message to the Knights.
"'Till we meet again," Elminster said, and watched his scribe ride off.
On the other hand, Adon simply walked away, without raising a single word or gesture from the sage. He was halfway down the walk before Midnight caught up to him, and gave him a small purse of gold.
"What is this for?" Adon said.
Midnight smiled. "Your fine silks have been ruined during our journey," she said. "You should replace them."
She pressed the gold into the cleric's cold hands and attempted to warm them between hers. The breathless excitement she had felt all day was painfully apparent to the cleric. Besides attempting to fathom the answers to some of the mysteries that had plagued her all during the journey, Elminster had allowed Midnight to participate in some minor rites of conjuring. There were many instances however, when even Midnight had been shut out of Elminster's private ceremonies that evening.
The darkness had already enveloped Adon when Midnight called out, reminding him to return in the morning.
Adon almost laughed. They had set him in a tiny room and given him volume after volume of ancient lore to read so he might attempt to find some reference to the pendant Midnight had been given. It was a gift of the goddess, Adon argued. Forged from the fires of her imagination. It had not existed before she called it into being!
"But what if it had?" Elminster said, eyes gleaming. But Adon was not blind. Interspersed in the lore he had been given were tales about clerics who had lost their faith, then regained it.
They would never understand, Adon thought. His fingers touched the scar that lined his face and he spent the evening reliving their journey, attempting to spot exactly where he had committed such an affront against his goddess to warrant her desertion in his greatest time of need.
By the time he noticed where he was, Adon was startled to find how far he had traveled. He was long past the Twisted Tower, and the sign for the Old Skull Inn was just overhead. The gold Midnight had given him was still clutched in his palm, and he slipped it into one of his pockets before he entered the three-story building.
The taproom was crowded and filled with smoke. Adon had worried that he would find dancing and merriment, but he was relieved to find the people of Shadowdale as preoccupied with their thoughts as he was. Most of the inn's customers were soldiers or mercenaries, come to the Old Skull to kill time before the battle. Adon noticed a young couple who stood off to the far end of the bar, laughing at some private joke.
Adon sat with one elbow on the bar, resting his face in his open hand, trying to cover the scar.
"What spirits will you be wrestling with tonight?"
Adon looked up and saw a woman in her mid-fifties, with a pleasant, robust glow in her cheeks. She stood behind the bar and waited patiently for the cleric to respond. When his sole communication was a wounded, dying flicker from his once fiery eyes, she grinned and vanished behind the bar. When she returned, she carried a glass filled with a rich, violet brew that sparkled and sputtered in the light. Bits of red and amber ice whirled around in the drink, refusing to come to the surface.
"Try this," she said. "It's the house special."
Adon lifted the drink, and a sweet aroma drifted to his nose. He squinted at the drink, and the woman gestured encouragingly. Adon took a swallow, and felt every drop of blood in his body turn to ice. His skin pulled taut against his bones and a raging fire burned its way through his chest. With trembling fingers he attempted to set the drink down, and the woman grinned as she helped him in the task.
Adon's breathing was heavy, his head spinning, when he asked, "What in Sune's name is in that!?"
The woman shrugged. "A little of this, a little of that. A lot of something else."
Adon rubbed his chest and tried to catch his breath.
"I'm Jhaele Silvermane," the woman said. "And who are — "
Adon heard a slight hiss from the bar. One of the ice cubes was dissolving, and amber bands drifted through the liquid. "Adon of Sune," Adon heard himself say, then wished he could take it back.
"Nasty cut there, Adon of Sune. There are powerful healers in the Temple of Tymora who may be able to help you. They have quite a collection of healing potions. Have you visited them yet?"
Adon shook his head.
"How did you come by such a mark? Accident or design?"
Adon's flesh tingled. "Design?" he said.
"Many a warrior would wear such a mark as a badge of courage, of lawful service." Her eyes were bright and clear. She meant every word of what she said.
"Aye," the cleric said sarcastically. "It was something like that."
Adon gripped the glass once more and took another drink. This time his head became slightly numb, and there was a buzz in his ears. Then that sensation passed, too.
"A toast!" someone shouted. The voice was dangerously close. Adon turned to see a complete stranger raising a flagon above his head. The stranger wore a grizzled mane of stringy hair, and he seemed to be the veteran of many conflicts. His huge hand reached out and clasped Adon's shoulder.
"A toast to a warrior who has faced the forces of evil and brought them low in the service of the Dales!"
Adon tried to intervene, but a huge roar went up as every man and woman in the inn saluted him. Afterward, many came forward and slapped him on the back. Not one shied away from the ragged scar that marked his face. They shared tales of battles, and Adon felt strangely at home. After about an hour, the stool beside him scraped against the floor and a lovely crimson-haired serving girl sat down beside him.
"Please," Adon said as he hung his head, "I want to be alone." But when he looked up, the woman had not left. "What is it?" he said, then realized she was staring at the scar. He turned away and covered the side of his face with his hand.
"Fair one, you need not hide from me," she said.
Adon looked around to see who she was talking to. The woman was staring at him.
Adon found himself staring back. The woman's hair was full and wild, with thick curls that reached to her shoulder and framed the soft contours of her face. Her eyes were a soft, piercing blue, and her elegantly chiseled features supported the mischievous grin she wore. Her clothes were plain, but she carried herself with the manners of royalty set at ease.
"What do you want?" Adon said softly.
Her eyes brightened. "To dance."
"There is no music," Adon said, shaking his head.
She shrugged and held out her hand.
Adon turned away and stared into the depths of his newly replenished drink. The woman dropped her hand to her side, then sat down next to Adon once more. Finally, he looked over to her.
"Surely you have a name, at least?" she said.
Adon's expression grew dark as he turned to her. "There is no place for you here. Go about your duties and leave me alone."
"Alone to suffer?" she said. "Alone to drown yourself in a sea of self-pity? Such actions hardly befit a hero."
Adon almost choked. "Is that what you think I am?" A nasty sneer fixed upon his face.
"My name is Renee," she said, and held out her hand once more.
Adon tried to hold his hand steady as he took her hand in greeting. "I am Adon," he said. "Adon of Sune. And I am anything but a hero."
"Let me be the judge of that, darling one," she said and caressed the side of his face as if the scar did not exist. Her hand trailed down across his neck, chest, and arm, until she took his hand in hers and asked him to tell his tale to her.
Reluctantly, Adon told the story of his journey from Arabel again, with little emotion in his voice. He told her everything, except for the secrets of the gods he'd learned. Those he saved for himself to ponder.
"You are a hero," she said, and kissed him full on the lips. "Your faith in the face of such adversity should be known, and held as an inspiration."
A soldier nearby laughed, and Adon was sure that he was the subject of the joke. He pulled away from the girl and slammed a few gold pieces to the bar. "I did not come here to be mocked!" he said in a rage.
"I did not — "
But Adon was gone, making his way through the adventurers and soldiers who crowded the inn. He reached the street and wandered almost a block before he fell against the wall of a tiny shop. There was a metal sign on the door with a name engraved upon it, and the moonlight allowed Adon to see his reflection in the metal. For an instant, the scar seemed barely noticeable. But as he raised his fingers to the ragged flesh, he saw his image distort, his face elongating so that the scar appeared to be even worse than it really was. Turning away from the sign, Adon cursed his weary eyes for betraying him.
As he walked through town, Adon thought of the woman, Renee, and her fiery hair that was so like Sune's. His treatment of the woman had been shameful. He knew he must apologize. On the way back to the inn a patrol stopped him, then let him go. "I remember the scar," one of them said.
Adon's spirits fell. He reached the Old Skull Inn, and after a few minutes of wandering the taproom, he sat back on his original stool and motioned for the attentions of Jhaele Silvermane. He related the story of the red-haired woman named Renee, the serving wench, and Jhaele merely nodded toward a darkened corner of the room.
Renee was there, sitting close to another man. The enticing gestures she made toward him were similar to those she had used on Adon. She looked up, saw Adon staring, then looked away.
"She must have smelled the gold on you," Jhaele said, and Adon suddenly understood Renee's true purpose in the bar. Moments later, he was on the street once more, his anger threatening to consume him. In the distance he saw the spires of a temple, and he made his way to it, passing the same patrol again.
The healers of the temple, he thought. Perhaps their potions would be powerful enough to remove the scar.
Tymora's temple in Shadowdale was far different from her temple in Arabel. Adon passed between a mighty set of pillars that burned with small watchfires set atop them. The vast double doors of the temple had been left unattended, and a large, polished gong lay on its side before the doors. Adon moved to the doors themselves when a voice rang out of the darkness behind him.
"You there!"
Adon turned and faced the same patrol he had spoken to outside the Old Skull.
"Something is amiss," Adon called. "The temple is silent, and the guard is nowhere to be found."
The riders left their mounts. There were four men, and their armor had been dulled to allow them the full cover of the night.
"Move aside," a burly man said as he brushed past Adon. The soldier pulled the heavy doors apart and turned his face away as the stench of death welled out of the temple.
Adon took a torn silk handkerchief and placed it before his face as he walked into the temple with one of the guards. Then the two men surveyed the bloody scene before them.
There were almost a dozen people in the temple, and all of them had been savagely murdered. The main altar had been overturned, and the symbol of Bane had been painted upon the walls with the blood of the murdered clerics. By the fires that still raged in the braziers and the smell that lingered in the temple, Adon knew the desecration had not taken place more than an hour earlier.
No children, Adon noted thankfully. The guard beside Adon became ill, and fell to his knees. When he rose, he found the young cleric moving through the rows of benches and the tiers of the platformed altar. Adon was removing the dead from the horrible positions their attackers had left them in, and was laying them out upon the floor. Then he tore the silk curtains from behind the altar and covered the bodies as best he could. The guard moved to his side, knees trembling. There was movement from without, then a cry as the other guards saw the horrors within the temple.
"There may be others," Adon warned as he pointed at the stairway leading into the heart of the temple.
"Alive?" the guard said. "Others… alive?"
The cleric said nothing, somehow sensing what they would find. The one thing he was certain they would not find were the precious healing potions he had been told about.
Adon remained in the temple even after the stench became unbearable for the others. He attempted to say a prayer for the dead, but the words would not come.
Kelemvor turned from the window. He had checked Midnight's room and found that she had not yet returned from Elminster's house. He went back to his own room, but he could not sleep. For a moment, he toyed with the idea of riding to Elminster's tower and confronting Midnight, but he knew that his efforts would be wasted.
Then, as he was once again watching out the window of the tower, he saw the mage approaching. The fighter watched as she passed the guards and entered the Twisted Tower. A few moments later, there was a knock at his door. Kelemvor sat on the edge of the bed and ran his hands over his face.
"Kel?"
"Aye," he called. "Enter."
Midnight entered the room and closed the door. "Shall I light a lantern?" she said.
"You forget what I am," Kelemvor said. "By the moonlight your features are as plain as if I beheld them at highsun."
"I forget nothing," she said.
Midnight was wearing a long, flowing cape, a more than adequate replacement for the one she had lost. Tiny flames leaped across the surface of the pendant. Kelemvor was surprised to see that she had taken it back, but he did not bother to question her about it.
Midnight removed the cape, then stood before the fighter. "I think we should talk," she said.
Kelemvor nodded slowly. "Aye. What about?"
Midnight ran her hands through her long hair. "If you're tired…"
Kelemvor rose to his feet. "I am tired, Ariel."
"Don't call me that."
Kelemvor flinched. "Midnight," he said and let out a deep sigh. "I assumed we would leave this place together. You would deliver the warning Mystra entrusted you with, then we would put this business behind us and be free for once!"
Midnight laughed a small, cruel laugh. "Free? What do either of us know of freedom, Kel? Your entire life has been ruled by a curse you can do nothing about, and I've been played for a fool by the very gods!"
She turned away from him and leaned against a dresser. "I can't walk away from this, Kel. I have a responsibility."
Kelemvor moved forward and turned her around to face him. He held her roughly by the shoulders. "A responsibility to whom? To strangers who would spit in your face even as you lay down your life to save them?"
"To the Realms, Kelemvor! My responsibility is to the Realms!"
Kelemvor released her. "Then we have little to discuss, it seems."
Midnight picked up the cloak. "It's more than just the curse with you, isn't it? Everything and everyone has their price. Your conditions are too much for me to bear, Kel. I can't give myself to someone who isn't willing to do the same for me."
"What are you talking about? Have I run from this place? Have I run from you? On the morrow we begin preparations for war. There's a good chance I won't see you again until this battle is over. If we survive, that is."
There was silence for a time.
"You would leave this place, wouldn't you?" Midnight said. "If I agreed to come away with you, you'd leave this very night."
"Aye."
Midnight let out a deep breath. "I was right, then. We have nothing lo discuss."
She reached for the door, but Kelemvor called to her. "My reward," he said. "Elminster promised there would be a reward, but he didn't say what it would be."
Midnight's lips trembled in the darkness. "I told him about the curse, Kel. He believes it can be lifted."
"The curse…," Kelemvor said absently. "Then it was a good decision to stay."
Midnight's hair fell before her face.
"He'd have done it anyway, damn you…"
She opened the door. "Midnight!" Kelemvor called.
"Aye," she said.
"You still love me," Kelemvor said. "I'd know if you didn't. That's my reward for coming this far with you, remember?"
Midnight's whole body stiffened. "Yes," she said softly. "Is that all?"
"All that matters."
Midnight closed the door behind her and left Kelemvor to stare into the darkness.