As the prisoners knelt before Mourngrym, the noise from the crowd in the audience chamber began to swell. Much of the surviving populace of Shadowdale had turned out for the trial, and both the courtroom and the area outside the tower were crowded with angry men and women who shouted curses at Midnight and Adon. The soldiers of Mourngrym’s guard found it difficult to contain the crowd.
Standing among the group of spectators at the front of the chamber, Kelemvor stared at the vulnerable form of his former lover as she was forced to kneel before Mourngrym. The fighter studied the cold, inaccessible expression of the dalelord and understood why his petition for a private audience with him the previous evening had been denied. Mourngrym’s fury over the loss of his friend was obvious, though he was attempting to put aside his personal feelings and act with impartiality.
Mourngrym raised his hand, and silence fell upon the court instantly. “We have gathered here to perform a solemn duty, not to howl like hungry dogs in the night. Let us act like civilized men. Elminster would expect us to do nothing less.”
A murmur rose from the spectators, but as the noise died down, the low, growling laughter of one man continued. Kelemvor turned to his left and jabbed his elbow sharply into Cyric’s side. “Shut up, you fool!” the fighter whispered.
Cyric sneered at Kelemvor and shook his head. “Wait until the trial is over, Kel. Then we’ll see what you think of the dalesmen’s grand claims of justice.”
When Cyric turned back to the dais, Mourngrym had his gaze locked on the thief. Raising one hand in mock apology, Cyric bowed slightly. A rumble of angry whispers was rising from the crowd again, but Mourngrym raised both hands to still the sound and cleared his throat noisily.
“Midnight of Deepingdale and Adon of Sune, you stand accused of the murder of the sage, Elminster,” Mourngrym began.
The silence of the crowd was shattered like a fragile crystal by Mourngrym’s words. Shouting for quiet, the dalelord unsheathed his sword and held it high in the air. Torchlight played off the blade and seemed to transform it into a mystic weapon, brilliant, hard, and unyielding. The guards all drew their swords and held them up in like fashion. The angry murmuring was silenced.
“Justice will be served,” Mourngrym said. “I swear it!” There were cheers, and Mourngrym allowed the crowd to settle once more before he continued. “This is a military trial,” he pronounced. “As such, there will be no jury. As lord of the dale, the responsibility of judgment is mine.
“Since magic is unstable, we dare not attempt to look into the minds of the accused. Facts alone will shape my verdict.” Mourngrym gestured to the silver-haired woman beside him. “Let the prosecution introduce its case.”
Storm Silverhand stepped forward. “There are two inescapable facts. First, a body was discovered in the Temple of Lathander. True, it was battered and torn beyond recognition, but the body was found near scraps of Elminster’s robe and fragments from a number of his ancient spellbooks.” The bard turned to the crowd. “Our sage and protector was missing, obviously murdered.”
Storm Silverhand turned to the prisoners and gestured toward them. “Second, these two were seen running from the temple only seconds before it was leveled by magical forces. Yet they survived unscathed.” The crowd’s screams and threats echoed in the room.
Unlike Mourngrym, Storm didn’t wait for the crowd to quiet down. “It is obvious that these two murdered our good friend,” she cried over the noise of the spectators. Midnight tried to protest from under her gag, but it was no use.
“Hold!” Thurbal cried, waving his cane in the air. The captain of the guard turned to face Mourngrym. “We must not assume the guilt of these people. We are here to determine what happened, not to lynch these two!”
A storm of boos and hisses erupted from the spectators. Cyric glanced at Kelemvor, but the fighter was staring straight ahead. Thurbal shook his head and sat down, and Mourngrym rapped the lectern with the pommel of his sword.
“One more outburst like this and we will hold these hearings in seclusion!” the dalelord warned in a loud voice. The crowd quieted down while the guards removed a few spectators who refused to stop shouting.
“The prosecution calls Rhaymon of Lathander,” Storm pronounced, and a blond man dressed in bright red robes with thick bands of gold trim was led forward by a guardsman.
“Tell us about the last time you saw Elminster alive,” Storm said.
The priest frowned thoughtfully, then began to speak. “My final duty on the day of the Battle of Shadowdale was to stand guard at the Temple of Lathander until Elminster arrived.”
“Stand guard? Against what?” Storm asked. “What were your fellow priests worried about?”
Rhaymon frowned, as if he had been asked a foolish question. “Earlier that day, the Temple of Tymora had been attacked. We were all badly shaken. The priests of Tymora were slaughtered, the temple desecrated, and the symbol of Bane painted in blood on its walls. Also the healing potions stored in Tymora’s temple were stolen.”
“So you feared, naturally enough, that the same thing could happen at your temple?”
“Yes, that’s correct,” Rhaymon said. “Elminster said he had something important to do at the temple. He said he would guard it for us.”
“Even with his very life?” Storm leaned close to the cleric.
Thurbal stepped forward, gesturing with his cane in protest. “She’s putting words in his mouth. Let the man speak for himself!”
Mourngrym’s eyes smoldered. “Get on with it, Storm.”
The silver-haired adventurer frowned and backed away from Rhaymon. “Was Elminster alone when he arrived at the temple?” the bard asked after a moment.
Shaking his head, the priest gestured toward the prisoners. “No. They were with him.”
“Can you describe Elminster’s mood at the time?”
Rhaymon seemed put off by the question. “Are you serious?” he mumbled quietly.
“I assure you, no one could be more serious,” Storm said grimly.
The priest swallowed. “He was a bit cranky, but he was Elminster, after all.”
There was some laughter from the crowd, but no hint of a smile crossed Storm’s features. “Would it be fair to say Elminster seemed agitated? Did the presence of the prisoners upset him?”
Rhaymon looked serious. “I couldn’t say what the cause of his uneasiness was. I do know this,” the priest said quickly as he pointed toward Adon. “The one with the scar stopped me as I was leaving and told me to make Bane’s soldiers pay for what happened to the worshipers of Tymora.”
Stormed nodded. “I have one final question. Do you think the prisoners killed Elminster?”
Thurbal rushed to stand before Mourngrym. “Milord, this goes too far!”
The expression of the dalelord grew dark. “I will decide how far this goes.” Mourngrym turned to the priest. “Answer the question.”
The priest tensed as he looked down at the prisoners. “If I could run them through, here and now, I would gladly do so. Many men, some hardly more than boys, died to save this town. While those heroes were giving their lives, these two were making a mockery of their sacrifice!”
“That is all,” Storm said, and she took her place beside Mourngrym.
Thurbal eyed the priest carefully before he spoke. “Did you see either the scarred cleric or the woman harm Elminster in any way?”
“Our way of life has been destroyed! We will have to rebuild the temple—”
“Answer the question,” Thurbal said calmly.
Rhaymon shook with anger. “I saw nothing.”
“Thank you,” Thurbal said. “You may go.”
A guardsman took Rhaymon’s arm and led him away. The priest looked over his shoulder and wrenched free of the guard. “I did not see the sun rise this morning! Does that mean this trial should be cloaked in darkness because it did not rise?”
“Enough!” Mourngrym declared firmly, and two guards gripped Rhaymon’s arms.
“They are guilty and deserve no less than death!” Rhaymon shouted. Instantly the crowd was stirred into a frenzy. As the robed man was dragged away, the guards grabbed several others from the crowd and forced them out of the audience chamber. The noise from outside the tower was growing steadily louder.
Cyric sat down on the bench and ran his hand through his brown hair. For this we risked our lives, the thief thought. We saved these cattle so they could put us on trial.
Then Cyric’s attentions turned to Adon. The cleric was slack-jawed and seemed unaware of the gravity of the proceedings around him. There was no gag to prevent the cleric from declaring his innocence, but instead Adon chose to remain silent. Say something, you worthless slug! Cyric thought. If not for your sake, then do it for Midnight!
But Adon did not speak, even as Lhaeo was called to testify. The young man who stood before the court had brown hair and gentle green eyes. His back held straight, his concentration directed fully toward Storm Silverhand, Lhaeo stood with an air of royalty, a far cry from the simpering fop most denizens of the dale were familiar with. “I am Elminster’s scribe,” Lhaeo said. His voice was firm.
“When Midnight and Adon first arrived at Elminster’s tower, they were in the company of Hawksguard, the acting captain of the guard.” Lhaeo looked out into the audience. “The fighters, Kelemvor and Cyric, were also with them.”
“Can you describe anything unusual in the exchange between Elminster and the magic-user, Midnight?” Storm asked.
Lhaeo swallowed. “Elminster indicated that this was not his first encounter with Midnight. He said something about the Stonelands.”
“Where a strange disturbance was seen in the skies just days before the strangers arrived in Shadowdale,” Storm pointed out. “Do you know anything about that?”
Lhaeo looked down into Midnight’s eyes and saw the quiet desperation of the magic-user. Memories of Elminster teleporting from his tower in haste, then returning after nightfall, muttering something about Geryon’s Death Spell, ran through the scribe’s mind.
“Not that I recall,” Lhaeo said, and Midnight’s eyes closed slowly in thanks. “I wish to go on record that I do not believe Elminster is dead.”
There were startled cries of outrage from the onlookers.
“We all know how close you were to the sage, Lhaeo,” Storm said sympathetically. “I would not think it an exaggeration to say that he was like a father to you.” Storm watched as Lhaeo stiffened. “But don’t let that overwhelm your reason.”
Storm bent over and picked up the tattered fragments of Elminster’s robe and the pages from the ancient spellbooks. “These are Elminster’s, are they not?” Lhaeo nodded slowly. “It is rather unlikely that your master would let artifacts such as these books be destroyed. And it is, in fact, impossible that he would allow the Temple of Lathander to be destroyed. If he were alive, surely he would have kept his promise to the clerics.”
The bard paused for a moment before she spoke again. “What business did Midnight have with Elminster?”
“She claimed that she carried the final words of the goddess Mystra, as well as a symbol of the goddess’s trust.”
“Then she is a heretic as well as a killer!” Storm cried, and the crowd exploded.
“Enough!” Mourngrym shouted, and the spectators slowly grew quiet once more. “Control yourself, Storm, or I will be forced to find a replacement for you in these proceedings!”
There was silence from the crowd.
“You were not present at the Temple of Lathander?” Storm asked when she turned back to the scribe.
“No,” Lhaeo said softly. “Elminster had sent me to contact the Knights of Myth Drannor. Magical communication with the East had been blocked. I was armed with Elminster’s wards and traveled at night.”
“You left the same day the strangers arrived,” Storm stated sharply.
“That is true.” Lhaeo said.
“Was it possible that Elminster did not trust the strangers and was attempting to protect you from them?” Storm asked.
Lhaeo hesitated for a moment, Storm’s words striking him like a blow. “I don’t think so,” the scribe said slowly. “No, that would not have been like him.”
“Yet you rarely accompanied him on his many ventures throughout the Realms. Why was that?”
Drawing a sharp breath, the scribe looked away from the bard. “I don’t know,” he said softly.
“I have nothing further to ask.” Storm turned away from the glaring green eyes of the scribe. Thurbal gripped the handle of his walking stick, his fingers caressing the dragon skull of the handle. Perspiration trickled down his face as he spoke.
“Why did Elminster allow Midnight and Adon to stay at his tower?” Thurbal said.
“Elminster trusted them and felt they would be of valuable assistance in the Battle of Shadowdale,” Lhaeo said.
“Elminster told you this?” Thurbal asked.
“Aye, and he allowed Midnight to assist him in the casting of many spells as the cleric researched mystical tomes.”
“Did he seem frightened or suspicious of Midnight and Adon in any way?” Thurbal inquired.
“No,” Lhaeo said. “Not at all. Quite the opposite.”
Biting his lip, Thurbal asked his next question. “Is the goddess Mystra dead?”
Storm rose up to shout in protest, but Mourngrym silenced her and ordered the scribe to answer the question.
“According to Elminster, a horrible fate befell the goddess. Whether or not she is dead, I cannot say.” Lhaeo sighed and hung his head.
“When Midnight arrived with her claims of a message from the goddess, Elminster did not laugh or send her away,” Thurbal stated flatly. “He was convinced of her integrity and dedication to the Realms.” Both Thurbal and the scribe remained silent for a moment.
“If you have nothing else to ask, Thurbal, I think we’ve heard enough from this witness,” Mourngrym said.
Lhaeo quietly left the stand and returned to his seat. Storm moved forward and called a burly guardsman with hazel eyes named Irak Dontaele.
“Your patrol was on duty the night of the attack against the Temple of Tymora. You were the first to enter the temple and discover the bodies of the worshipers and the desecration of the temple itself,” Storm said.
“No,” Irak growled. “Not true.” Quickly he rushed past the other guards, grabbed Adon by his robes, and lifted the cleric up off his knees. “This one was there before any of us!”
“Put him down!” Mourngrym said, and the crossbows of the guards who stood behind the prisoners were suddenly leveled at the witness. Adon’s dull eyes swam in their sockets as he was lowered reluctantly to the ground. “What is the meaning of this, Storm? Are you trying to show some connection between the attacks on the two temples?”
“There’s the connection!” Storm cried, pointing at Adon. “This man was present both times. They say he is a cleric of Sune, the Goddess of Beauty, yet look at his face. Even without the ugliness of his scar, he is hardly what one would expect. I submit that Adon of Sune and Midnight of Deepingdale are allies of the Black Lord, and their true allegiance is to that evil god and the city of Zhentil Keep. That is why they murdered Elminster!”
A roar erupted from the crowd. “Kill them!” someone cried.
“Yes!” screamed a woman. “Death to the servants of Lord Bane!”
Mourngrym struggled to maintain his composure. “Enough!” he ordered.
“No!” Storm cried, turning to face Lord Mourngrym. “What names did the adventurers give to the guards when they first arrived in the dale?”
Kelemvor winced. When they had arrived in Shadowdale, they had used a false charter to gain admission to the town. The fighter had been certain that the matter would be forgotten in the chaos caused by Bane’s attack.
“They used false names … a stolen charter. If my words are untrue,” Storm shouted, “why hasn’t the cleric said anything in his own defense?” Storm now stood directly over Ado
n. “Speak, murderer! Tell us what you’ve done!”
Adon didn’t look up to meet the bard’s fiery gaze. He simply looked straight ahead and whimpered. “Sune,” he said simply, and then he was silent once more.
“Thurbal, have you any witnesses to call?” Mourngrym inquired.
“I call Kelemvor Lyonsbane,” Thurbal said, and the fighter was escorted forward from the crowd. “You led the eastern defenses near Krag Pool, where Bane’s army suffered the greatest number of casualties and the decisive victory against our enemies was won. Yet you entered Shadowdale at the same time as the prisoners, and in their company. Tell us briefly how you know the accused.”
“Midnight and Adon are of stout heart, and their loyalty to the Dales and to the Realms should not be questioned,” Kelemvor said confidently.
“Tell him to answer the question,” Storm snapped, turning to Mourngrym.
Kelemvor examined the striking, silver-haired woman. His gaze locked on her blue-gray eyes as he told the tale of his first meeting with Midnight in Arabel and the quest that eventually led them to the Dales.
“So this was a business arrangement,” Thurbal stated. “You didn’t know her before you met in Arabel.”
“No, I didn’t,” Kelemvor said. “But I’ve come to know her very well since then.”
“He’s a consummate mercenary,” Storm said. “He does nothing without some form of reward.”
Passing his fingers over his mouth, Mourngrym spoke. “If you had not been called, Kelemvor Lyonsbane, if you had been forced to volunteer to testify on Midnight’s behalf, would you have spoken for her?”
The fighter shook, his face growing dark. To lie in Midnight’s favor would be an unselfish act he had not been paid for. And that would trigger the curse.
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