Tempus Blackthorne cleared the main chamber of Bane's new temple in Zhentil Keep whenever his Black Lord was not in attendance. Blackthorne was responsible for overseeing the day-to-day operations of the Dark Temple, and he had personally supervised the construction of the second, smaller chamber to the rear of the temple. Then, once the workers had completed the room, the mage had slain them as well. "No one must know," Bane had said, and Blackthorne would give his life to protect the secrets of Bane's "Chamber of Meditation." In truth, it was a filthy place, but it served its purpose well.
Bane had been careful to hide certain facts from his worshipers; the Black Lord feared that if they knew about his human limitations, his need for sleep and nutrients, their worship might not be so fervent and their willingness to sacrifice themselves to his cause might be impaired. So Bane had Blackthorne bring all his food and drink to him through a secret tunnel, and whenever the Black Lord had to sleep, he did so in the chamber's small bed, with his emissary on guard by his side.
Piled up in the corners of this room were arcane texts that Bane had spent every available moment pouring over. Upon a nearby table lay a collection of sharp, tiny blades that looked like the tools of a sculptor. Bane had used these to perform horrible experiments upon the flesh of a handful of his followers, staring for hours at a time at the flow of blood he had caused, listening intently to the cries of agony from the weaker of his subjects. Blackthorne knew these studies were important to his lord, but he did not know why. Still, Bane was his god, and Blackthorne knew enough not to question the motives of a deity. After a time. Bane had grown tired of the experiments, as if they had not yielded the results he had desired. But the blades had been left in plain sight, a reminder that he had not yet found the answers he sought.
When Bane occupied Castle Kilgrave, the chamber had been empty, but now a swirling vortex came into being, and the Black Lord fell from the rip in space to the hard floor, his breathing shallow, tears dripping from his eyes. He attempted to remember even the simplest of spells, something to levitate his shattered form from the floor to the hard mattress of the bed that sat just out of reach, but his efforts were futile. Then Blackthorne appeared out of the vortex and dragged Bane toward the bed. The emissary grunted as he lifted the Black Lord's avatar and placed him on the bed.
"There, my lord. You will rest. You will heal."
Bane was comforted by the voice of his faithful emissary. Blackthorne had saved him. He had seen Bane weakened, near the point of death, and still he came. It made no sense to the Black Lord. Had their positions been reversed, he would have allowed the emissary to perish rather than put himself at risk.
Perhaps he feels indebted to me for the life of his friend, Knightsbridge, Bane thought. That must be the reason for his service. Now that he's paid the debt, though, I suppose I'll have to watch my back with him.
Bane saw a pool of his blood on the floor: crimson, with amber streaks floating through it. Though one of his lungs was ruptured and he should not have tried to speak, the god gasped as he reached out and touched the scarlet pool.
"My blood," Bane cried. "My blood!"
"You will be well, lord," Blackthorne said. "You can grant healing magics to your clerics. Use those same magics to heal yourself."
Bane did as Blackthorne urged, but he knew that the healing process would be slow and painful. He tried to take his mind from the discomfort by concentrating on the memories of his rescue from Castle Kilgrave. Blackthorne's magic had been strong enough to bring the mage to the castle, and to teleport Bane and himself away. But they had only escaped as far as the colonnade beyond the castle.
Bane had watched as Mystra took the pendant from the dark-haired magic-user. Then, an instant later, the Goddess of Magic was challenging Helm, both gods standing upon a Celestial Stairway.
The Tablets of Fate! Helm asked for the tablets!
Bane watched in complete horror as Helm destroyed the Goddess of Magic. He witnessed the last vestige of Mystra's essence approach the magic-user and heard the warning of the goddess as the pendant was returned to the dark-haired human. Incredible magics had been released during Mystra's battle with Helm, and Bane had seized upon them to finish the task Blackthorne had started, and gated them back to Zhentil Keep.
Bane laughed when he thought that he never would have used the stairway in Shadowdale as part of his plans had it not been for Mystra's warning. If she had accepted her fate quietly, the events she was so worried about might never have been set into motion. So as Bane lay upon his bed, seeking to recover from the grievous injuries inflicted on him by Mystra; he began to make plans, until finally, he settled into a deep, healing trance.
The sky was a deep lavender, with streaks of royal blue and gold. The clouds were still black, reflecting the dead, charred earth below them, and the huge pillars had become trees with wilting stone branches that snaked across the ground for miles. The mantle of the earth was slick as glass in places, torn apart and filled with debris in others. The red rivers were cooling, becoming solid. Ice no longer fell from above.
The walls of the prismatic sphere that enshrouded the adventurers and their mounts vanished as Midnight rescinded the spell. Touching the blue-white star pendant that once again hung from her neck, Midnight found that there were no signs of the powers that had once resided in the item. Now it was merely a symbol of the strange, apocalyptic encounter between Midnight and her goddess.
Midnight climbed upon her horse and surveyed the shattered countryside. "Mystra asked me to go to Shadowdale to contact Elminster the sage. I don't expect any of you to go along, but if you're coming, we're leaving right now."
Kelemvor dropped the sack of gold he was loading onto his horse, "What?" he screamed. "And when did the goddess tell you this? We never heard it."
"I expect you to understand least of all, Kel, but I have to go." Midnight turned to Adon. "Are you coming?"
The cleric looked from the magic-user to Kelemvor to Cyric, but no one said a word. Adon mounted his horse and moved to Midnight's side. "You are truly blessed to be given a mission like this. Thank you for asking me to aid you. I will most certainly accompany you."
Cyric laughed as he finished packing the party's supplies and grabbed the reigns of the packhorses. "There isn't much left for me here. I might as well go with you. Coming, Kel?"
Kelemvor stood by his horse, his mouth hanging open with shock. "You're all going off to follow a fever dream," he said. "You're making a terrible mistake!"
"Follow us if you will," Midnight said, then turned from Kelemvor and rode off, Adon and Cyric trailing behind her.
The way was treacherous and unpredictable, and by the time the trio had begun to make headway on their journey toward the mountains in the far distance, the unmistakable sound of Kelemvor's mount approaching grew louder, until the fighter caught up to Midnight. No one spoke for a mile or so.
"We haven't even split our shares of the booty," Kelemvor said at last.
"I see," Midnight said, a slight smile playing across her face. "Quite so. I am in your debt."
"Aye," Kelemvor said as he reminded her of her words in the castle. "That you are."
As they made their way across the nightmarish landscape left in the wake of Mystra's destruction, the heroes saw that the devastation grew worse. The roads were gone, and huge craters filled with smoking black tar barred their path, forcing them to double back and circle around to pass some areas. But by nightfall, the mountains came into view, and they made camp overlooking Gnoll Pass.
A caravan of merchants with wagons loaded with wares appeared on the road below the adventurers' camp. The caravan was heavily guarded, and when Adon sprang from cover and attempted to warn the travelers of what lay ahead, he was met with a volley of arrows. The cleric leaped to the ground.
The caravan passed, and soon faded from view. Adon returned to the campsite only to find a roaring fire and Midnight preparing something that appeared to be meat, but smelled quite awful. She seemed intent on the task before her, ordering Kelemvor to turn the meats at certain times as she sliced vegetables with her dagger.
The meal was not turning out well, and it seemed that the party would go hungry that night when Cyric held up a small pouch he had found with Mystra's gifts and motioned for quiet. He reached into the bag and pulled out entire loaves of sweetbread, armloads of dried meats, tankards of ale, blocks of cheese, and more. And yet the pouch seemed empty at all times, even as more food was taken from it.
"We won't hunger or thirst again!" Kelemvor said as he drank his fill of the mead before him.
Later, as they ate a meal taken from the pouch, Kelemvor felt a tightness in the pit of his stomach. The food was dreadful, and he seriously questioned the wisdom of eating any food taken from a magical source during this time of instability in the art. The heroes finished their meal without conversation, but the looks on their faces conveyed their thoughts quite well. Then Midnight broke the silence in the camp with a wish that Adon's healing spells would return at the earliest opportunity to settle their upset stomachs. The comment met with a hearty round of approval from both Kelemvor and Cyric.
As the meal was ended, Kelemvor and Adon stopped to examine the gifts that Mystra had given them, while across the camp, Midnight was helping Cyric clean up after their meal.
"Will you ride all the way to Shadowdale with me?" the magic-user asked Cyric as they gathered the leftovers.
Cyric hesitated.
"We have supplies, healthy mounts, and enough gold to make us wealthy for the rest of our lives," Midnight said. "Why not come along?"
Cyric struggled with his words. "I was born in Zhentil Keep, and when I left, I vowed never to return. Shadowdale is far too close for my liking." He paused and looked at the magic-user. "Still, my path seems to lead in that direction, no matter how much I desire it to be otherwise."
"I wouldn't want you to do something you didn't want to," Midnight said. "The decision is your own."
Cyric let out a deep breath. "Then I will go. Perhaps from Shadowdale I'll buy a boat and travel the Ashaba River for a time. It would be peaceful, I think."
Midnight smiled and nodded. "You've earned the chance to rest, Cyric. You have also earned my gratitude."
The magic-user heard noises from the other side of the campsite, where Kelemvor and Adon were still taking an inventory of Mystra's gifts. Adon had promised to keep Kelemvor honest, which met with a laugh and a powerful slap on the back from the fighter.
Midnight and Cyric continued their conversations about far-away lands, exchanging knowledge of customs, rituals, and languages. They discussed their past adventures, though Midnight spoke more on this subject than Cyric.
"Mystra," he said at last. "Your goddess…"
Midnight wiped her dagger clean and returned it to its sheath. "What of her?"
Cyric seemed surprised by Midnight's response. "She's dead, isn't she?"
"Perhaps," Midnight said. She thought about it for a moment, then went back to the small pit Cyric helped her dig to bury their refuse. "I'm not a child, not like poor Adon. I am saddened by Mystra's passing, but there are other gods to give thanks to, should the need arise."
"You don't need to hold back with me — "
Midnight stood up. "Finish this," the magic-user said as she gestured to the pit and walked off. Cyric watched her back as she left, then turned to the job before him. He remembered looking up at the warring gods and the childish glee that filled him as their blood was spilled. Ashamed of his reaction to Mystra's death, Cyric then turned his thoughts aside and concentrated on cleaning up.
Down the path, away from the campfire and Cyric, Midnight felt a coldness that had nothing to do with the thin mountain air. There's no point in grieving over Caitlan's and Mystra's passing, Midnight thought. She silently cursed Cyric for mentioning the goddess and scolded herself. There was no malice in the man that she could judge, only a lifetime of hardship that made him uncomfortable with any form of communication except the exact science of words.
Kelemvor, on the other hand, was Cyric's opposite in this regard. His actions and his unspoken declarations excited Midnight. Only when he tried to hide his feelings behind his curtain of ill-conceived and ill-timed banter did he assume the appearance of an infuriating lummox, betraying his many strengths. Perhaps they had a future together.
Only time would tell.
She approached Kelemvor and Adon, and the two were still bickering.
"We split it up equal!" Kelemvor snarled.
"But this is equal! You, me, Midnight, Cyric, and Sune, without whom — "
"You're not going to start about Sune again!"
"But — "
"Four ways," Midnight said coolly, and both men turned. "Do what you like with your share, Adon. Give it to your church if you will."
Adon's shoulders slumped. "I wasn't being greedy…"
Kelemvor seemed ready to question this.
"Perhaps you need some rest," Midnight said, and the young cleric nodded.
"Aye, perhaps this is so."
Adon walked away, the flickering light of his torch showing him the trail that led to the campfire beyond. Sliding on one of the rocks, then righting himself, Adon mumbled something else about Sune and was gone.
"How do you feel?" Midnight asked. "Were the tender mercies of this woman's cooking to your fancy?"
"Shall I speak plainly?" Kelemvor said.
Midnight smiled. "Perhaps not."
"Then I feel fit to carve a kingdom from these rocks."
She nodded. "I feel that way myself." She motioned to the riches before them. "Shall we?"
"Aye. It's always a pleasure to work with a keen mind and a level head when it comes to such matters."
Midnight stared at him, but he did not take his gaze from the treasure. Before them the gold lay in piles on the stump of a huge tree. There were rubies, bits of jewelry, and a single, strange artifact that Midnight bent low to examine. She cried out in joy, picked up the magical item, and grinned at Kelemvor.
"We will be splitting this five ways it seems!"
Kelemvor sat back, "What do you mean?"
"This is a harp of Myth Drannor. Elminster is a known collector of these. If all else fails, we may use it to gain his audience."
Kelemvor thought about it. "But what's it worth?"
Midnight refused to be discouraged. "We won't know until someone makes an offer, now will we?"
"Oh. Aye, good thinking."
"Each of the harps is said to possess magical properties," Midnight said as she handled the object. The harp was aged, although it had once been a thing of shining beauty. The finely wrought ivory and gold inlays had been realized by a true artisan, and the dark red wood reflected the fire from the torches as if it still retained its original polish. Midnight plucked at the strings without skill, and the sound that issued forth was a strange, discordant flow of reverberating notes that grew louder and caused Kelemvor's armor to shake as if an unseen force was attacking him.
"MID — "
Suddenly each and every tiny clasp that held it in place popped open, and Kelemvor's armor fell to the ground.
"— NIGHT."
Kelemvor sat, covered in nothing but a chain mail tunic, his armor spread around him in a heap. Midnight's mouth was open wide as she worked her jaws soundlessly, then she fell over in a fit of laughter.
"See here!" Kelemvor frowned.
"Please!" Midnight said, discouragingly.
"No, I meant…" The fighter looked down at the armor and sighed.
Midnight sat up and took a deep breath. "This must be Methild's Harp. It is, as I remember, known to part all webs, open all locks, break all bonds… all of that."
"I see," Kelemvor said, his mild agitation giving way to Midnight's infectious grin. "Perhaps now is the time for the reward we discussed. What say you?"
Midnight stood up and backed off. "I think not," she said, her heart suddenly pounding like a trip hammer.
Midnight turned around. She heard Kelemvor stand and felt his hand touch her shoulder. The mage bit her lip as she stared at the torch in front of them. His other hand gently encircled her waist and she trembled, fighting her own desire.
"We're only talking about a kiss," he said. "One kiss. Where is the harm in that?"
The mage leaned back into Kelemvor's arms. He brushed the hair away from her neck as he blew gently upon her tingling flesh and tightened his hold around her waist. Midnight's hand covered his.
"You promised you would tell me…," she said.
"Tell you what?"
"You were stricken in the castle. You made me swear to give you a reward to carry on. It made no sense."
"It made sense," Kelemvor said, slipping away behind her. "But some things must be kept secret."
Midnight turned. "Why? Tell me that much, at least."
Kelemvor was backing into the shadows. "Perhaps I should release you from your pledge. The consequences would be suffered only by me. You do not need to concern yourself. Perhaps it would be — "
Midnight didn't know if it was a trick of the light, or if Kelemvor's flesh really was turning darker, his skin seeming to ripple beneath the mail.
"— better," the fighter said, his voice low and guttural. Kelemvor's entire body began to quake, and it seemed as if he were about to double over in pain.
"No!"
Midnight ran toward him, placed her hands on either side of his face, and brought her lips to his. His eyebrows had seemed thicker, his hair wild and dark, as if the gray were vanishing, and his piercing green eyes were like emerald flames. As they kissed, his body seemed to relax and he pulled away, as if he were about to speak.
She studied his face. It was as she had always remembered it. "Don't talk," she said. "We need not talk."
She kissed him again, and this time he took control of the kiss, his iron grip pressing her to him.
Unnoticed by either Kelemvor or Midnight, Cyric approached soundlessly. He watched as they kissed again and Kelemvor lifted the mage from her feet. Midnight had her arms around the fighter's neck as he gently lowered her to a bed of gold pieces. She began to laugh and tug at the clasps of her clothing.
Cyric retraced his steps, his head hung low, a slow tide of anger rising within him as the laughter of the couple followed him, taunting him even as he made his way to the campfire and ordered Adon to go to sleep.
"I will take the watch," Cyric said and stared at the flames.
After his watch, Cyric lay down to get some rest, but he dreamed he was once again in the back alleys of Zhentil Keep. This time he was only a child, and a faceless couple led him through the streets, taking offers from passers-by as they attempted to auction him off to anyone with enough money.
Cyric woke with a start, and when he tried to remember the dream, he could not. He lay awake for a few moments, thinking that there was a time when his dreams had been his only form of escape. But that was a long time ago, and for now, he was safe. He rolled over and fell into a deep, restful slumber.
Adon paced nervously, anxious to leave the wilderness. Midnight suggested he use the time to give thanks to Sune.
The cleric stopped, wide-eyed, muttered "of course," and found a spot to make a small shrine. Midnight and Kelemvor did not speak. They simply lay against a great black boulder, their arms around one another, watching the flames of a fire they had started. Midnight leaned close and kissed the fighter. The gesture seemed uncomfortable and strange, although only a few hours before it had seemed perfectly natural.
The heroes woke Cyric at the first light of morning and led their horses from the mountain. By highsun they had established a healthy pace, although their morning repast — taken from the pouch — left each the gift of a bitter taste and an upset stomach.
The road was damaged in places, and huge silver fish with sharp teeth leaped from one of the lava pits the adventurers encountered. At times the sun appeared to be in the wrong position, and the heroes feared they were traveling in circles again, but they went on, and soon the skies returned to normal.
As they made their way across the twisted land, the adventurers encountered many strange things. Huge boulders, carved to resemble the faces of frogs by the bizarre forces that had been unleashed during Mystra's fight with Helm, alternately cursed and praised the travelers, then told them risque jokes that they laughed at, but did not slow down for.
Farther down the road, a war seemed to be in progress between opposing hills, as boulders and bits of rock were tossed back and forth, striking thunderous blows. The hostilities ceased as the travelers approached and resumed once they had passed. As the party moved farther from the site of Mystra's death, the strange occurrences became less and less, and the heroes relaxed just a bit.
They stopped and made camp for the night in a clearing at the foot of a huge mountain that seemed unaffected by the chaos Mystra's passing had brought about. Cyric was shocked to find the self-replenishing pouch of food and drink completely empty. When he reached inside, he felt the pull of something cold and damp that licked at his hand until he withdrew it in haste and tossed the pouch away.
They were forced to rely on the separate food that was left, but the heroes felt confident these would be enough for the long journey ahead. When Midnight and Cyric prepared the meal, however, the meat seemed to be spoiling, the breads becoming stale, and the fruits gone to rotting. They ate what they could and drank heavily of the mead and ale. But that, too, seemed to have lost its taste, going down more like bitter water than nectar.
Cyric was very quiet. Only when a topic that truly fascinated him arose did he bring his opinions to bear, and then he was vehement in his assertions. Then Cyric would lapse into one of his meditative silences, staring at the flames of the campfire as night wrapped itself around the weary travelers.
That night, Midnight went to Kelemvor, and he took her in his arms without uttering a word. Afterward, she watched him as he slept, excited by the quiet rhythms of his body. Midnight smiled; there was such strength and ferocity in his movements when they touched, such wonderful passion, that she wondered why she doubted her feelings for the man. She was amazed that he had never married, one of the few facts she was able to draw from him as they lay side by side just before sleep took hold of the fighter.
Midnight quietly dressed and made her way to Adon, who had taken first watch. She found the cleric trying to hold a small mirror between his bare feet, moving the angle slightly as he plucked at any unseemly facial hairs with one of Cyric's daggers. Then he tended to his hair, running a silver comb through it as he quietly counted off one hundred strokes. Midnight relieved him of the watch, and he carefully made his bunk, then settled into a deep sleep with a contented smile. Once during her watch, Midnight heard Adon whisper, "No, my dear, of course I'm not shocked," then the voice faded.
When Midnight attempted to rouse Kelemvor to relieve her of the watch, the fighter swatted at her playfully and attempted to drag her back to his bed. "Tend to your duty," she told him as he rose, stretching his arms wide. He turned, grinned, then walked away before he could say something that would have caused Midnight to stone him on the spot.
Just before morning, Kelemvor became hungry. The packhorses had been roped nearby, and he decided not to wait until morningfeast. He left the campfire and made his way to the horses and supplies. Even in the dim light of dawn, he could see that the horses were dead. Beyond the packhorses, the mounts that had been provided by Mystra for Cyric and Adon were on their sides, trembling.
Kelemvor called out to the others, bringing them to his side in moments. Cyric fetched a torch, lighting it in the flames of the campfire. They found no reason for the condition of the animals. There were no marks upon the beasts, nor tracks that would indicate a wild animal or saboteur in their midst.
When they checked their provisions, the heroes found that their food had become completely foul. The meats bubbled with green, cancerous growths. Strange, black insects crawled from the fruits. The breads were stale and moldy. The ales and meads had evaporated. Only the water they had taken from the colonnade outside Castle Kilgrave was unaffected.
Kelemvor searched through the pouches containing their gold and treasures and let out a cry as he found nothing but yellow and black ash. The harp of Myth Drannor had been rotted through, and it broke apart as Midnight tried to pick it up. She found a bag that had once contained diamonds. Now it held only their dust. The mage set it aside for use as spell components.
"No," Kelemvor said softly, pulling away from Midnight's comforting hand as she attempted to console him. He glared at her. "Now all we have is your miserable quest!"
"Kel, don't — "
"It's all been for nothing!" he screamed as he turned his back on the magic-user.
Adon moved forward. "What will we eat?"
Kelemvor looked over his shoulder. His eyes and teeth seemed unusually bright, as if they were catching the first rays of sun and holding them. His skin seemed darker. "I'll find something," Kelemvor said. "I'll be the provider for us all."
Cyric offered to help, but Kelemvor waved him away as he ran toward the mountains. "At least take the bow!" Cyric called, but Kelemvor ignored him, becoming a dark blur against the shadow-filled foothills.
"'The gods giveth, the gods taketh away,'" Adon said philosophically, shrugging.
Cyric let out a bitter little laugh. "Your gods — "
Midnight raised her hand, and Cyric didn't finish his sentence. "Take what you will from your mounts," the mage said. "Then we should make them as comfortable as possible until the end."
"Is there nothing we can do?" Adon said, taking pity on the suffering animals.
"There is one thing," Cyric said, and drew his blade.
Midnight exhaled a ragged breath and nodded. Cyric offered to wait until after Midnight and Adon were out of view of the dying mounts, but they each agreed to remain and offer some degree of comfort and compassion to the animals as Cyric mercifully ended their pain.
Hours passed, and Kelemvor did not return. Finally, Adon volunteered to look for the fighter.
Adon found deep shadows and tiny, unseen creatures that made odd sounds. The cleric wondered if Kelemvor had been injured, or if perhaps he had deserted them. The fighter would have taken his mount, Adon reminded himself, though the thought brought little comfort as the cleric allowed himself to be swallowed up by the darkness.
Something scampered by his boot, and Adon was pleasantly surprised to see a soft, gray squirrel suddenly stop, look at him, then bolt as the cleric crouched down to look into its deep, blue eyes. He moved through a thicket of trees, forcing branches away carefully so that his face would not be scratched. As he climbed higher, Adon found a clearly marked trail before him.
Kelemvor had come this way.
Adon was congratulating himself for finding the trail when he stumbled over Kelemvor's breastplate. The armor was covered with blood. Adon cautiously untied his war hammer from his belt.
Farther up the trail, the cleric found the rest of Kelemvor's armor, bloody like the breastplate. He considered Kelemvor's fighting prowess, and wondered what manner of beast could have brought the fighter down.
There was movement in the trees. Adon caught a glimpse of black fur and snarling teeth, and he bit back a call for help, afraid he would reveal his position. The cleric remained still for a few minutes, then heard a roar from behind him.
Adon didn't bother to look back as he ran, following the trail of broken branches and disturbed patches of earth, and he didn't look down long enough to realize that the tracks leading away from the armor had begun as the imprints of human feet and become the pawprints of some huge animal.
The cleric didn't know how far he had run when he broke through a web of branches and the earth suddenly disappeared from beneath his feet, sending him tumbling through the air. An instant later his body made a splash as he plunged into water.
Rising to the surface of the water, Adon shook the mire from his hair and surveyed the area. A swamp? he thought. Here? This is madness!
Madness or no, the fact remained that Adon found himself paddling to the marshy shore of a beautiful, ghostly land, lit by a soft, bluish white glow. The sunlight was absorbed by elegant strands of Spanish moss that hung from the tall black cypress trees and glowed to reveal the wiry intricacies of its design. The moss seemed to be straining as it reached downward, an occasional strand gently touching the surface of the swamp. Huge lotus pads floated toward Adon, and as he climbed to the shore, he saw a beautiful butterfly with orange and silver wings burst from its cocoon before his eyes. A lone heron started as it watched Adon approach, then fled, making tiny splashing sounds as its feet broke the water.
Adon rose from the bog, disgusted at the mess he had made of his fine clothing. Suddenly he froze as he heard a roar and the sounds of some beast crashing through the forest above him. But, the sounds stopped as suddenly as they had begun, and Adon looked around in vain for some place to hide. Clusters of bright yellow and red leaves capped the spindly gray trees close by, but little cover was afforded the cleric as he slowly made his way up the hill toward the tiny clearing from which he had fallen.
As he climbed, Adon found his war hammer, where it had landed when his fall jolted it from his grasp. Good, he thought. At least I'll go down fighting — like Kelemvor.
The creature in the woods howled once more, and Adon broke into a run, reminding himself not to scream for help with every passing step. Finally, the clearing rose up before him, but a huge black shape padded back and forth, barring the way.
Adon stopped.
It was a panther, and at its feet lay a deer, savaged almost beyond recognition. How very natural, the cleric thought. And here I thought it was some horrible troll.
The panther's head swung back and forth, as if it were dazed. Adon prayed to Sune that the beast would be content with its feast, and just before he took his first step backward, the beast began to shudder. It threw back its head, and Adon caught a glimpse of its shining green eyes as the beast roared in pain, a human hand bursting from its throat.
Adon dropped his hammer. It fell to the earth and landed with a thud. The creature didn't notice. A second gore-drenched hand burst from the flank of the beast, and there was a sickening sound as the rib cage exploded and Kelemvor's head emerged from the opening. One of the beast's legs tore open, and a pale, shriveled, child-sized leg emerged. The leg grew until it was the proper length for a man's limb, and its twisted foot straightened, its bones crackling as they popped into place.
A second leg emerged, repeating the process, as the thing that was somehow becoming Kelemvor sprang from the shell of the beast. The fighter gave an exhausted grunt as he fell to the ground, a sleek network of hair already forming on his naked and smooth flesh.
Adon felt himself bending low to retrieve his hammer. He moved forward, shuddering as be approached the fighter. "Kelemvor?" he said, but the fighter's eyes, wide and staring, registered nothing. Kelemvor's breathing was shallow, and a current ran beneath his skin as blood vessels burst and his flesh aged to its proper years.
"Kelemvor," Adon said again, and issued a blessing over the man, then passed through the clearing without looking back. He found the trail without difficulty, and soon he was moving down through the thicket of trees until he reached the campsite. Midnight and Cyric were waiting.
"Did you find him?" Midnight asked.
Adon shook his head. "I wouldn't worry," he said. "Game and solitude are plentiful in the valley over the first ridge. I'm sure he has found both. He will return soon."
Adon told them of the odd swamp nature had created over the ridge, and soon the sounds of a man awkwardly making his way through the brush drifted to their ears. Midnight and Cyric met Kelemvor at the base of the foothills. The blood covering his armor looked to have come from the bloodied deer swung over his shoulder. Cyric helped the fighter with his freshly slain burden. They butchered the animal and quickly prepared it over a small fire.
Adon watched the fighter, who seemed oblivious to everything except the meal before him. Kelemvor looked up sharply at one point, catching the cleric's gaze. "What? Did you forget to bless the meal?" Kelemvor asked bitterly.
"No," Adon said. "I was — " he waved his hand in the air, "- lost in thought."
Kelemvor nodded and returned to the feast. When they were done, Adon and Cyric went to work saving what meat they could from the animal, wrapping it tightly for their dinner.
"I must speak with you," Kelemvor said, and Midnight nodded, following him as they made their way to the road. Midnight had already sensed his intent, and was not surprised when Kelemvor made his request. "There must be a reward, or I cannot go with you."
Midnight's frustration was evident. "Kel, this makes no sense! At some point you're going to have to tell me what this is all about!"
Kelemvor said nothing.
Midnight sighed. "What shall I ply you with this time, Kel, more of the same?"
Kelemvor hung his head. "It must be different every time."
"What else can I give you?" Midnight put her hand up to the fighter's cheek.
Kelemvor grabbed Midnight's hand roughly, forcing it away from him as he broke from her embrace. "It is not what I desire that matters, only what you are willing to give! The reward must be something of value to you, but worth what I must go through to earn it."
Midnight could barely hold back her anger. "What we have together is of value to me."
Kelemvor nodded slowly as he turned to face her. "Aye. And to me."
Midnight moved forward, stopping before she came close enough to touch the fighter. "Please tell me what's wrong. I can help you — "
"No one can help me!"
Midnight looked at Kelemvor. The same violent desperation she had seen in his eyes at Castle Kilgrave was there now. "I have conditions," Midnight said.
"Name them."
"You will ride with us. You will defend Cyric, Adon, and me from attack. You will help in the preparation of meals and setting up camp. You will impart any information you have that is relative to our safety and well being, even if it is only your opinion." Midnight drew a breath. "And you will follow any direct orders I give you."
"My reward?" Kelemvor said.
"My true name. I will tell you my true name after we have spoken to Elminster of Shadowdale."
Kelemvor nodded. "It will suffice."
The adventurers traveled the rest of the day, returning to their earlier practice of sharing two mounts. That night, after they set up camp and feasted, Midnight did not go to Kelemvor. Instead, she sat beside Cyric, keeping him company on the watch. They spoke of the places they had seen, with neither ever telling what they had done in those strange lands.
Soon, though, Midnight grew tired and left Cyric, settling into a deep, restful sleep that was shattered by an image of a horrible black beast with glowing green eyes and a slavering, fanged mouth. She woke with a start, and for a moment she thought she saw tiny blue-white fires playing over the surface of the amulet. But that was impossible. Mystra's power had been returned to the goddess, and the goddess had been slain.
The magic-user heard movement and reached for her knife. Kelemvor stood above her.
"Time for your watch," he said and vanished into the night.
As Midnight sat by the fire, she watched the darkness for signs of Kelemvor, but there were none. A few feet away from her, Cyric tossed and turned in his sleep, plagued by some personal nightmare.
Adon found he could not sleep at all. He was disturbed by the secret he had inadvertently uncovered. Kelemvor seemed to have no memory of Adon's presence during his metamorphosis from panther to human. Or was Kelemvor merely pretending not to remember? Adon wanted desperately to confide in someone about what he had seen, but he felt honor-bound as a cleric to respect the privacy of the fighter. It seemed clear that he should let Kelemvor's secret remain just that until the fighter either chose to confide in his comrades or became a threat to the party due to his affliction.
Adon stared into the night and prayed that he had made the right decision.
Tempus Blackthorne lit a torch before he entered the tunnel, then he wrestled with the supplies he had purchased. The tunnel had been expertly constructed. The walls and ceiling were perfectly cylindrical, and the floor was a long two-foot wide plank. The walls had been polished then sealed with a substance that resembled marble when it dried. Blackthorne still regretted killing the craftsmen and fabricating the story of their accidental death. He wondered if anyone believed him.
In the chamber above, Bane was bellowing incoherently in a tongue Blackthorne had never heard before. The emissary listened as he climbed the stone steps carefully and practiced the routine he had helped Lord Bane install as a fail-safe against intruders: right foot on the first step, left on the third. Right foot joining left on the third step. Left up one, right up two, then retracing the steps in reverse, and returning upward once more in a different sequence. Any who varied from this routine would be sliced to ribbons by the traps Bane had created.
Blackthorne teetered on one foot as he struggled to keep hold of the packages. He touched the lever on the wall, pulling it back three clicks, forward nine, back two. The wall before him vanished, and Blackthorne stepped through into Bane's secret chamber.
The mage turned away from the sight of Bane's dark, bubbling flesh and the froth of blood at his mouth. There was a new hole in the wall beside the Black Lord, and Blackthorne saw that one of the restraints had been torn from the wall. The bed frame had been shattered long ago, and the mattress torn to ribbons. Bane screamed, his body convulsing as the fit grew worse.
Blackthorne was attempting to devise a new excuse for the Black Lord's absence when the noises behind him abruptly ceased. He turned and saw that Bane was absolutely still. As the emissary moved close to his god, he feared that Bane's heart had stopped. There was an odor of death in the room.
"Lord Bane," Blackthorne called, and Bane's eyes shot open. A taloned hand moved toward Blackthorne's throat, but the emissary fell back and out of the way of the blow, saving himself. Bane sat up slowly.
"How long?" Bane said simply.
"I am pleased to see you well!" Blackthorne fell to his knees.
Bane tore the remaining restraints from the wall and snapped the bonds at his ankles and wrists. "I asked you a question."
Blackthorne told Bane everything about the dark times after Bane had been rescued from Castle Kilgrave. The Black Lord sat on the floor, leaning against the wall as he listened, nodding occasionally.
"I see my wounds have healed," Bane said.
Blackthorne smiled enthusiastically.
"My physical wounds, anyway. There is always the matter of my pride."
Blackthorne's smile faded.
"Aye. My pathetic human pride…" Bane held up his talons before his eyes. "But I am not human," he said, and looked to Blackthorne. "I am a god."
Blackthorne nodded, slowly.
"Now help me dress," Bane said, and Blackthorne rushed forward. As they struggled with Bane's black armor, the god inquired about specific followers and the progress that had been made on his temple.
"The humans that came to Mystra's rescue in Castle Kilgrave," Bane said at last. "What of them?"
Blackthorne shook his head. "I do not know."
One of the ruby red eyes of Bane's gauntlet opened wide, and the Black Lord grimaced. Memories of Mystra's final moments and of her warning to the dark-haired magic-user filled the mind of the dark god.
"We will find them," he said. "They will journey to Shadowdale, to seek out the assistance of the mage, Elminster."
"You wish them detained?" Blackthorne said.
Bane looked up, startled. "I wish them dead." Bane's attentions returned to the gauntlet. "Then I want the pendant from the woman brought to me. Now leave. I will call for you when I am ready." The emissary nodded and left the chamber.
The Black Lord fell back against the wall, his body trembling. He was very weak. Bane corrected himself. The body had been weakened. Bane, the god, was immortal and immune to such petty concerns, despite his situation. Bane reveled in his first moments of true clarity since awakening from his sealing sleep, then he considered his options.
Helm had asked Mystra if she bore the Tablets of Fate. When she offered the identities of the thieves instead of the actual tablets, Helm destroyed her. The secret he shared with Lord Myrkul was still safe.
"You are not omniscient after all, Lord Ao," Bane whispered. "The loss of the tablets has made you weak, as Myrkul and I suspected it would."
Bane realized he had said these words aloud in an empty room and felt a coldness in his essence. There were still a few traces of his avatar's humanity to exorcise, but he would accomplish this in time. At least his search for power had not been a strictly human conceit. The quest had begun with the theft of the tablets and would end with the murder of Lord Ao himself.
Yet there were obstacles Bane would have to overcome before he could achieve his final victory.
"Elminster," Bane said softly. "Perhaps we should meet."
In the darkest hours of morning, Bane stood before an assembly of his followers. Only those who had been awarded the highest ranks or privileges were in attendance as Bane sat upon his throne and addressed his followers. He linked the minds of all present so they could share in his fevered dream of incredible power and glory. Without uttering a word, Bane had whipped the humans into a frenzy.
Fzoul Chembryl had the loudest voice and the most intense passion for Bane's cause. Though the God of Strife knew Fzoul had opposed his will in the past, he felt a growing admiration for the handsome, red-haired priest, as Fzoul argued for the eventual dissolution of the zhentarim — of which Fzoul was second in command — and the reformation of the Black Network under the strict authority of Bane himself. Naturally Fzoul requested to be considered for the position of leader of these forces, but the decision would be Bane's alone, Fzoul cried, and Bane's wisdom was beyond criticism.
The Black Lord smiled. There was nothing like a good war to motivate humans. They would march on Shadowdale, Bane leading the troops personally. In the frenzy of battle, Bane would slip away and dispatch the troublesome Elminster. In the meantime, assassins would be sent to intercept Mystra's magic-user before she could deliver the pendant to the sage of Shadowdale. Another group would be sent to occupy the tiresome Knights of Myth Drannor. Satisfied with the plans, Bane went back to his secret chamber in the rear of the temple.
That night the God of Strife did not dream, and that was good.