Tantras

by Scott Ciencin

  For many hours, Kelemvor reconnoitered the Citadel of Tantras and the adjacent buildings. The trail had led first to the citadel, the center of Tantras’s government. Then it took Kelemvor to the Temple of Torm. There the trail ended, and Kelemvor knew that he did not dare try to barge into the well-guarded place of worship, searching for a murderer.

  When Kelemvor finally returned to the Lazy Moon Inn, he found Midnight waiting in their room. The mage was frantic with worry.

  “I spent half the night on the docks trying to find you,” Midnight cried as she embraced the fighter and they kissed.

  “What did you mean by that note?” Midnight whispered as she pulled away from the fighter and wiped the tears from her eyes.

  “Exactly what it said. Cyric is alive, and he tried to kill me. I’ve seen him, and I have no doubt he will make other attempts on my life … or your life,” Kelemvor growled and stomped across the room. “Is Adon in his room? We should leave the inn and hide for a while. There’s a slum near the docks where we can maintain a much lower profile.”

  “Adon hasn’t returned yet,” Midnight said.

  Kelemvor’s face turned white. “He’s still at the temple?”

  “Yes. Why?” the raven-haired mage asked in a low tone.

  Reaching for the door, Kelemvor gestured for Midnight to follow. “We’ll have to find him. Adon’s in terrible danger from the Tormites. I’ll explain on the way!”

  Midnight nodded and followed the fighter out of the room, stopping only long enough to grab the canvas sack containing her spellbook.

  Outside the Lazy Moon Inn, Adon watched as Kelemvor and Midnight said their farewells. The concern the lovers showed for one another was touching, if a little maudlin. Still, the cleric knew that searching the city alone was dangerous and they might never see one another again. But it was better that way. Midnight and Kelemvor could search for the tablet wherever they pleased, and Adon wouldn’t slow them down.

  “Adon,” Midnight said, and the cleric snapped to attention. The mage smiled at him warmly. “Try not to worry. We’re going to be fine.”

  “So you say,” the cleric mumbled.

  Midnight gripped the young man’s arm tightly. “And stop feeling sorry for yourself,” she whispered, then turned and walked away. Kelemvor stared at the mage as she headed down the street, while Adon made his way across the lane, then merged with the crowd.

  The cleric expected his mission to the Temple of Torm to be a simple matter. Having visited the clergy of many different gods in his travels, Adon was familiar with the protocol for calling upon priests of rival denominations. Holding both hands side by side, palms facing up, thumbs stretched as far apart as possible, was almost universally accepted as a sign of peaceful intentions. By showing this sign and saying, “There is room for all,” a cleric could expect to gain admittance to most temples quite easily.

  But as the cleric of Sune passed through the Citadel of Tantras, he felt that gaining entrance to Torm’s temple might not be so easy. People stared at him as he passed, then looked away and pretended that they hadn’t noticed the young man. Others pointed at Adon and whispered amongst themselves. The number of guards Adon encountered increased as he moved farther toward the temple, too. He had the feeling that he was heading toward an armed camp, not a house of worship.

  The spires of the citadel were impressive, but Adon expected their allure to pale beside the rebuilt Temple of Torm, a living god. He was stunned by the sight of the plain three-story building that had been surrounded by protective walls and a series of interlocking gates. Pairs of simple one-story towers, with covered walkways leading from one to another, served as gatehouses.

  Warriors wearing the symbol of Torm waited outside each gatehouse. Adon approached the first pair of well-armed guards, performed the ritualistic greeting, and announced himself as a worshiper of Sune. Though it pained the young cleric to claim he still worshiped the Goddess of Beauty, he knew that he would be allowed into the temple more quickly if he appeared to be a visiting priest.

  The warriors failed to answer the greeting in the customary manner. Instead, one guard ran off to alert his superiors. Then two more armed guards appeared, and Adon was taken into one of the gatehouses, where he was subjected to a series of interviews. Various clerics and members of the town government asked the scarred young man a wide variety of questions about everything from his hobbies as a boy to his opinions about various philosophical matters. Adon was as helpful as possible, but when he expressed his confusion at the odd treatment he was receiving, he received no explanation. Strangely, what Adon thought would be the most important question—his reason for visiting the temple—was never brought up.

  “Why is this questioning necessary?” Adon demanded of the fifth interviewer, a bored civil servant who looked out at the cleric through dark, hooded eyes. It was now several hours after eveningfeast, and the cleric had begun to wish that he had forced himself to eat something before he left the Lazy Moon.

  “Why do you worship Sune?” the bored man asked Adon for the fifth time, then looked down at a sheet of parchment that rested on the table before him.

  “I’ll answer no more questions until I receive some information in return,” Adon said flatly, crossing his arms over his chest. The civil servant sighed, folded up his parchment, and shuffled out of the sparse, stone room. The scarred cleric heard a bolt slide into place on the other side of the door. With the door now locked and the small window in the cell filled with strong, iron bars, Adon knew that it would be futile to search for an escape route. So he waited.

  It was almost six hours later that a cleric wearing the robes of Torm entered the chamber where Adon had been left to wait. Introducing himself, the scarred cleric performed the ritual of greeting and waited for a response.

  “We have no temple to Sune in Tantras,” the bald Tormite told the prisoner, ignoring Adon’s downturned eyes and opened hands. “Lord Torm walks among us. He is all. Our god sets the hours of the day, the loyalty—”

  “The loyalty in your heart, the reason in your head. I’ve heard it all before,” Adon snapped, his calm facade splintering. He stood up and took a step toward the bald man. “I want to know why I have been subjected to this insulting test of endurance.”

  The Tormite narrowed his eyes, and his features turned cold and lifeless. “You have no business being in a temple dedicated to Torm, Adon of Sune. You will be shown out immediately.”

  As the bald man turned, Adon subdued his anger. “Wait!” the young cleric called. “I meant no insult.”

  The bald man turned back to face Adon, a sneer on his face. “You are not a practicing cleric. I’ve already been told that,” the man growled. “You have no real business in any house of worship.”

  Adon felt his heart race with anger and confusion. He had mentioned nothing to the interviewers of his recent loss of faith.

  The bald man must have read the confusion in Adon’s eyes, for he growled, “The nature of the questions we have asked you allows us to make inferences with a very high degree of accuracy. You are as easy to read as any book in our library.”

  “What else do you know about me?” Adon asked, worry beginning to well up inside of him. If the Tormites had discovered anything about the Tablets of Fate from his answers, Midnight and Kelemvor might now be in danger, too.

  The cleric of Torm walked to Adon and stood directly in front of him. “You are disillusioned. That scar on your face is recent. And you want something from us.”

  “I seek an audience with Lord Torm,” Adon told the bald man, meeting the Tormite’s look of disgust with one of quiet anger.

  The bald cleric tried to hide his surprise at Adon’s audacity, but he failed miserably. “That is hardly a request to be made lightly. Besides, why should the God of Loyalty see a faithless wretch such as you?”

  “Why shouldn’t he?” Adon asked, shrugging. “I have been witness to sights that only a god or goddess could interpret or appreciate.”


  The bald man raised one eyebrow. “Such as?”

  Adon looked away. The cleric knew that he would have to choose his words carefully. “Tell the God of Duty that I have seen Lord Helm stand at the head of a Celestial Stairway. I have heard the guardian’s warning to the fallen gods.”

  The bald man’s lips curled back in a snarl, and he raised his hand as if to strike Adon, then stopped. The Tormite paused for a moment, then forced himself to smile weakly. “Since you have come to Torm with this knowledge, my superiors may wish to speak with you further.” The bald man gently grabbed Adon’s arm and led him from the room. “Come. We will find a place for you to sleep in the barracks outside the temple. It may be some time before my masters can find a moment to speak with you.”

  Adon rested that night on a warm cot inside the building outside the gate to the temple. The cots were usually reserved for guards who were stationed on call, but, on this night at least, there were more cots than guards. For a short time, Adon actually managed to sleep. The rest of the time he spent mulling over his relationship to the gods and forcing images of Elminster’s final moments in the Temple of Lathander out of his mind.

  During his periods of wakefulness, Adon strained to listen to the guards’ conversations on the walkway outside the gate. If he concentrated, the young cleric could hear fragments of various discussions that went on outside his window. Most of the talk concerned women or drink, but a few statements caught Adon’s attention.

  “To have seen Lord Torm’s face is enough. I understand there are those who have even touched his robes …,” one voice said in a reverent tone.

  Adon felt a sickness in his heart. The voice had been so pitiful, so awestruck. Would he sound that way if Sune had appeared before him? At one time, perhaps, but certainly not now.

  A few minutes later, two more figures paused beside the barracks. “Dangerous talk!” a woman said, her voice full of fear. “Don’t let anyone hear you say that. Do you want to vanish like the others?”

  Later still, another man said, “I’ve heard talk of a fringe group that worships Oghma, the God of Knowledge. I have their names and addresses. With Lord Torm’s grace, by the end of the week—”

  “Lord Torm does not need to be troubled with such matters, my friend!” another voice snapped. “Just give the information to me. I’ll see that the situation is handled properly.…”

  Finally, just before the hour of dawn was announced, a man stopped directly outside Adon’s window. “He must never find out,” the gravel-voiced man grumbled. “It was all for him, all in his name.” He paused. “But Lord Torm might not understand, since he has been removed from the world for so long. He must never know all that has occurred.” Then the men were gone.

  As dawn was announced, Adon suddenly realized that a priest had silently entered the barracks and stood no more than ten feet to the side of the cleric’s cot. Rising from the cot, Adon gave the ritual greeting and felt relief flow through him when the priest returned the gesture. This Tormite was very tall, and his platinum hair was combed straight down, nearly touching his silver eyebrows. The priest’s eyes were sky blue, and his smile was so warm that it instantly set Adon at ease.

  Suddenly realizing that his hair was unbrushed, rather dirty, and probably sticking up in places, Adon tried to brush his locks into place with one hand. The priest looked on with amusement. Adon laughed and gave up.

  “My clothes have been slept in, my hair is a mess, and I haven’t eaten since yesterday,” Adon said with a sigh. “I suppose I’m hardly what you expected as a cleric of Sune.”

  The priest put his hand on Adon’s shoulder and guided the young cleric out of the small building, past the gatehouse, and onto the walkway leading to Torm’s temple.

  “Do not concern yourself, Adon of Sune,” the priest murmured reassuringly. “We will not judge you by your appearance. As for morningfeast, I have arranged for a private meal to be delivered to my chambers. We will share this, and I will tell you everything that you need to know.”

  Adon and the platinum-haired priest entered the temple through a gate. A thousand stone gauntlets lined the doorway, and Adon felt uneasy as he brushed past one of them. It seemed to the faithless cleric that the stone hand might reach out and grab him, might prevent someone who didn’t have faith in the God of Duty from entering his home. Of course, nothing happened.

  The two men passed down a long corridor lined with oaken doors. Each door was adorned with a painted gauntlet, and sounds of chanting and worship drifted through each of the chamber doors.

  Soon the corridor forked into two diagonal pathways that stretched for twenty feet in either direction. These smaller hallways ended in doorways. The priest turned to the left, followed the hallway to its end, then opened the polished oaken door. It creaked open, revealing a simple chamber. A straw mattress dominated the cell’s floor, and devotional paintings of the God of Duty covered the walls.

  The meal that the platinum-haired priest had promised was there, and Adon quickly sat on the floor. A plate of warm bread, along with cheese and fresh fruit, lay on a platter. As the Tormite stood silently over him, the scarred cleric started to eat hungrily. Noticing that the priest was staring, Adon put down his food and waited as the man uttered a prayer over the meal.

  Adon started to eat again, and the priest sat down across from him. The platinum-haired man’s first words caused the cleric to choke.

  “Will you do penance for not blessing your meal?” the Tormite asked softly.

  Adon’s face turned white, and he got a small piece of bread caught in his throat. He coughed several times, then shook his head vigorously.

  The priest leaned forward. “So it’s true, then, Adon, that you are no longer a cleric.”

  Adon began to feel ill as he realized that this was just another interrogation session. He put the chunk of bread he was eating back on his plate.

  The platinum-haired man frowned. “A cleric is nothing without belief, and yours is very weak.” He paused and studied Adon’s eyes. “Have you come here seeking guidance? Is that why you made up that wild story about delivering a message to Lord Torm?” the priest asked sadly.

  “Perhaps,” Adon whispered. He tried to force a look of shame onto his face to hide his growing fear.

  The priest, a broad smile covering his face, clutched Adon’s shoulders. “You have just taken the first step toward accepting Lord Torm, the God of Duty. Today you will be allowed to wander the temple freely. You may enter any door marked with the symbol of Torm. All others are off limits to you … for now.” The Tormite paused, and the smile left his face. “There are serious penalties if you ignore these warnings. I’m sure you understand.”

  The priest allowed his perfect smile to return, but now Adon saw that expression as threatening somehow.

  The scarred cleric cleared his throat and tried to return the platinum-haired man’s smile but failed. “You haven’t told me your name,” Adon said.

  “Tenwealth,” the Tormite told Adon happily. “Dunn Tenwealth, high priest of Torm. Now, put on a cheerful face, friend Adon. There is reason enough to feel fear and depression outside these walls.” The priest stood up and threw his arms open wide. “While you are here, you are safe within the gauntleted hand of Lord Torm.”

  Tenwealth helped Adon to his feet, then patted him on the shoulder. “I must leave you now,” the platinum-haired man said. “I have other duties to attend to.”

  Adon stayed in the chamber for a little while after Tenwealth left, then spent the morning and half the afternoon observing services and rituals that were so commonplace the scarred cleric soon grew bored. Adon had been a traveler in his youth. He had once seen a pagan ritual performed on the lip of a violently churning volcano that was at once beautiful and terrifying. Although the cleric could appreciate the well-ordered, perfectly respectable rites the followers of Torm performed to honor their god, he was not impressed.

  In the middle of the afternoon, Adon sent a messenger to deliver a
note to Midnight at the Lazy Moon. Adon then found himself alone in a lush garden that lay at the rear of the temple. A beautiful statue of a golden lion stood in the center of the garden, seeming to stare lazily at Adon as he sat on a stone bench.

  Allowing his facade of contentment to drop, the cleric mulled over all that he had seen and heard since he entered the gatehouse almost a day ago. Obviously something sinister was going on in the temple, and it seemed likely that Lord Torm knew nothing about it. Like all the fallen gods, the God of Duty was forced to rely on a human avatar. But Torm was also locked away in a palace, where only smiles of adoration could penetrate the carefully guarded walls. Adon shivered and closed his eyes.

  “The gods are as vulnerable as we are,” Adon murmured sadly after a few moments.

  “I’ve long suspected it,” a voice said nonchalantly. The cleric opened his eyes, turned, and saw a man who was as ruggedly handsome as anyone Adon had ever seen. The man’s hair was red, with touches of amber. A neatly trimmed beard and mustache accentuated his strong, proud jaw. The eyes that gazed into Adon’s were a rich blue, with flecks of purple and black. Staring at the man’s face was not unlike watching a setting sun.

  The man smiled warmly, genuinely. “I am Torm. My faithful call me ‘the Living God,’ but as I gather you already know, I am just one of many gods in Faerun these days.” The man held a gauntleted hand out to the cleric.

  Adon’s shoulders sagged. This was no god. It was merely another cleric sent to test him again.

  “Don’t torment me!” Adon snapped. “If this is another test of my worth—”

  Torm frowned only slightly, then gestured toward the statue of the lion. Suddenly a roar filled the garden, and the golden lion padded toward the red-haired man. Torm caressed the creature’s head, and the beast lay obediently at the fallen god’s feet. Torm turned to Adon and asked, “Is that proof enough for you?”