“What do you want?” he asked at last.
“Food, lodgings, perhaps some information—”
The old man waved her away. “You can take the first two. No one will stop you. Information comes at a price.”
Midnight wondered if the man was mad. “We have no coin to pay for our lodgings, but perhaps we can provide protection from those who seek to rob you of your valuable services—”
“Rob me!?” the man said, alarmed. “You misunderstand.” He leaned in close, and the smell of the cheap liquor made Midnight recoil. “You can’t rob what someone no longer cares to keep! Take what you like!”
The man returned to the antechamber. “I no longer care,” he cried from the dark room.
Midnight looked to the others, then leaned against the wall, defeated. “Perhaps we should get our things,” she said at last. “We may be here awhile.”
They brought their gear to the first available room, then Adon took the keys which were hanging behind the counter in the small room where the innkeep lay drunk. The room the heroes took was quite pleasant and came with two beds. Adon settled his things on one bed and went about changing his clothes, indifferent to the magic-user’s presence.
It was still raining outside and the room was dark, so Midnight lit a small lantern beside the bed. Adon checked on Cyric with a cursory examination, then set off to explore the city.
Midnight helped Cyric out of his clothes, laughing as the thief actually blushed. “Have no worry,” Midnight said at one point. “I’m a complete amateur.”
Cyric winced. “You’re doing fine,” he said as he pulled the covers back up to his chest.
“I’ll sleep on the floor,” Midnight said at last. “I prefer it for my back. You remember to keep covered and warm.”
Cyric frowned. “I’m too old to be mothered. You should worry about yourself, not about me—”
Midnight held out her hand, motioning for him to stop. “We must make you well,” she said softly. “You must be strong for your journey.”
Cyric seemed confused. “What journey?”
“Your search for that better place,” the mage said. “You don’t have to accompany me any farther. The way between Tilverton and Shadowdale should be clear. I can make it there alone.”
Cyric shook his head and tried to sit up. Midnight gently pushed him back on the bed. “There is no need,” he said. “No need to go on alone.”
“But, Cyric, I can’t ask you to come with me. You need to rest, to heal—”
Cyric had already made up his mind. “There must be healing potions in this place. Medications, salves. Everything in town seems to be here for the taking. Find something to heal me, and I’ll be by your side for as long as you need me.”
“I wouldn’t have left until you were well,” she said.
“Your mission is urgent. You can’t afford to wait.”
“I know that,” Midnight said. “But I would have stayed just the same. After all, you’re my friend.”
For the first time in a long time, Cyric smiled.
* * * * *
Kelemvor was alone on the streets. The storm was hanging directly overhead, and the drops of rain, now orange, fell on him as he searched for the smithy. Eventually, he found the blacksmith hard at work in the shelter of his shop, and he ducked inside as the rain started to fall harder.
The smith was a burly man with a build similar to Kelemvor’s. He had curly black hair, and the flesh of his bare arms was bruised in places and seared black in others. The smith did not look up from his work as the fighter approached. The bright metal shoes he created for the nearby horse were almost ready, and he turned to test the pair he had set aside to cool.
“A moment of your time,” Kelemvor said.
The blacksmith ignored the fighter, training his gaze on the job before him. Kelemvor cleared his throat noisily, but that, too, was ignored. However, Kelemvor was cold and tired and in no mood to be insulted.
The fighter peeled off the armor where the brigands’ arrows had struck him. He threw the steel plates at the smith, knocking the red-hot tools from his hands. The man bent low to retrieve the instrument before the hay at his feet could catch fire, and he examined the armor plating. Then he looked up to see the ravaged flesh of the fighter’s arm, where fragments of the brigands’ arrows had lodged themselves.
“I can mend this” the smith said without emotion. “But I can do nothing for your wounds.”
“Are there no healers in Tilverton?” Kelemvor asked. “I saw a large temple over the roofs of the shops down the street.”
The man turned away. “The Temple of Gond.”
“All right, I saw the Temple of Gond. There must be clerics who could—”
“Remove the rest of your armor so I can get to work” the smith interrupted. “Then you can go to the temple yourself. I only heal metals.”
Kelemvor gave the smith his armor and put on some clothes he had taken from the party’s supplies. The smith worked silently, ignoring the fighter’s questions no matter if he screamed them or couched them in all the politeness he could muster. When he was done hammering out the damaged armor, the blacksmith refused to take any payment.
“It’s my duty to Gond,” the smith said as Kelemvor wandered back into the street.
Kelemvor found the Temple of Gond without difficulty, despite the rain. Occasionally he passed a commoner wandering the streets or lying on the walk outside a shop, but the people he met were indifferent to his presence, their eyes vacant, staring at something only they could see. He also found the greatest concentration of smith shops he had ever seen in one area, though they were generally deserted.
When Kelemvor finally reached the temple, he saw that it had an entrance constructed in the form of a great anvil. The building itself was made of stark, powerful shapes that rose up to dwarf the hovels and shops around it. There were fires burning within the temple, and an unending chorus of worship sounded from the doorway.
As he entered the Temple of Gond, the fighter was surprised by the vast expanse of the main chamber. If there were quarters for the high priests in the temple, they must surely have been underground, since every square foot of the ground floor had been devoted to the chamber.
In the chamber, worshipers crowded around a hooded high priest who stood atop a huge stone anvil. Giant stone hands were visible at either side of the altar; a gigantic hammer was poised in one of them. Fires had been lit in the four corners surrounding the hooded man.
The support pillars that rose up to the arched ceiling were carved in the form of swords, and the windows were framed with an interlocking series of hammers. It was hard to understand the exact words of the high priest, as the continuous shouting from the audience drowned out all but a few key phrases, but it was clear that the high priest was issuing an endless series of praises to his god and an equal number of condemnations to the commoners of Tilverton.
“The gods walk the Realms!” a man beside Kelemvor shouted. “Why has Lord Gond forsaken us?”
But the man’s words were swallowed up in the endless flow of chants and screams. Kelemvor judged that nearly the entire population of the small town was crowded into the temple, though occasionally, a few worshipers would wander out.
“Wait!” the priest would cry as people tried to leave. “Lord Gond has not abandoned us. He has given me the gift of healing to keep the faithful well until he arrives!” Few seemed to be swayed by this, but some of the people were persuaded to stay.
Listening to the Tilvertonians, Kelemvor learned that they had devoted themselves exclusively to the worship of Gond, God of Blacksmiths and Artificers. When tales of the gods walking the Realms reached the city, the people began to prepare for the arrival of their deity. They stood at readiness, waiting for some sign, some communication.
They waited in vain. Gond had risen in Lantan and did not make any attempt to contact his devoted worshipers in Tilverton. When a small group from the town reached Lantan and requested
an audience with the god, they were turned away. When they persisted, two of them were slain and the others forced to flee for their lives. When this story was related to the townsfolk, it broke their spirit. Now they spent almost every waking hour in the temple, attempting to contact their god, attempting to disprove what they already knew in their hearts.
Gond didn’t care about Tilverton.
Kelemvor was about to leave the temple when he noticed the silver-haired man standing to the rear of the chamber. A short, dark-haired girl stood beside him, her attentions riveted on his beautiful, unearthly face. No one else seemed to notice the man, and he turned away from the girl without acknowledging her presence. She turned and ran behind him as he walked to the place where Kelemvor stood and looked into the eyes of the fighter, a slight grin playing over his face. The eyes of the silver-haired man were bluish gray, with tiny red flecks floating through them. His skin was pale, although fine silver hairs were growing on his face and arms.
“Brother,” the man said simply, then walked away.
Kelemvor turned and tried to catch the man or the girl, but when the fighter got to the street, the silver-haired man was nowhere to be seen.
After standing for a moment in the purple and green hail that was now falling on Tilverton, the fighter returned to the temple. As Kelemvor again stood at the rear of the main chamber, a young woman, a priestess, caught his eye. The fires of belief had not dimmed in her eyes: they burned bright enough to set the night sky aflame. She was very beautiful and wore a white gown tied at the waist by a leather belt. Intricate patterns had been woven into the fabric of her gown, and steel plates covered her shoulders. The odd mixture of delicate silks and hard steel somehow lent even more power to her appearance.
The fighter pushed his way through the crowd and was soon talking to the priestess, whose name was Phylanna.
“I need a place to stay,” Kelemvor said.
“You’ll need more than that,” the priestess said, “judging from your injuries. Are you a follower of Gond?”
Kelemvor shook his head.
“Then we have something to talk about as our healer tends to your wounds.” Phylanna turned and beckoned for him to follow. “I sense you have suffered greatly these past few days.” She did not wait for his reply.
Phylanna brought him to a small stairway, which led down to a cramped chamber. There they waited until the high priest, now finished with his tirade against the town’s wavering faith, entered the room. Phylanna closed and locked the door as the priest entered.
“You must never tell anyone about what you are going to witness,” Phylanna said as she helped Kelemvor lay back upon the room’s single cot.
“I am Rull of Gond,” the priest said, his voice harsh and cracking from his prolonged sermon. “Are you a worshiper of the Wonderbringer?”
Before Kelemvor could answer, Phylanna held her hand to the fighter’s lips and said, “It does not matter if he worships Lord Gond in this time of trouble. He needs our help, and we must give it.”
Rull frowned, but then nodded in agreement. The priest closed his eyes and took a large, red crystal from a chain around his neck. He waved it over the fighter.
“It is a miracle you find yourself walking and of clear mind. A lesser man might have died from the infections you carry,” Rull said as he examined Kelemvor. The fighter looked at the crystal and noticed a strange, burning glow in its interior.
“Kelemvor is proud,” Phylanna said. “He bears his injuries without complaint.”
“Not entirely true,” Kelemvor grunted as the high priest went to work.
Phylanna seemed concerned as Rull performed the ritual to heal the fighter, but the priest’s skills as a healer became obvious as his deft fingers worked in the air and the black welts that surrounded the fighter’s wounds were slowly flushed with blood. The priest was sweating, his voice raised in supplication to Gond. Phylanna cut anxious glances to the door, fearing others might blunder in and interrupt the priest’s efforts.
The splinters left by the arrow points rose to the surface of Kelemvor’s skin, and Phylanna assisted Rull in removing them with her bare hands. Kelemvor cursed himself as he winced at the pain.
Then it was over. Rull’s body relaxed, almost as if he had been completely drained of energy, and Kelemvor slumped forward on the cot. The fighter’s wounds were no longer tender, and he knew that his fever had lessened.
“Rull’s belief is strong, and so he has been rewarded by the gods,” Phylanna said. “Your belief must be strong, too, to survive that kind of wounding.”
Kelemvor nodded. He saw that the light within the crystal had become a slight flicker.
“Foolish and stubborn, perhaps, but still very strong,” Phylanna said.
Kelemvor laughed. “You’re lucky I’m flat on my back, woman.”
Phylanna smiled and looked away. “Perhaps.”
Though both Phylanna and Rull asked Kelemvor about his business in Tilverton and his religious beliefs, he told them very little about himself. But when the fighter spoke of payment for the priest’s efforts, Rull said nothing and departed.
“I meant no offense,” Kelemvor said. “In most places it is customary—”
“Material concerns are the least of our worries,” the priestess said. “Now about your lodgings …”
Kelemvor glanced around the tiny, windowless cell. “I have an aversion to closed-in spaces.”
Phylanna smiled. “The Flagon Held High may have an open room.”
Kelemvor swallowed. “I have … an aversion … to that particular inn.”
Phylanna folded her arms across her chest. “Then you’ll have to stay with me.”
There was a loud crash and angry voices erupted from the stairway leading to the cell. Kelemvor sat up quickly and reached for his sword. Phylanna put her hand on his shoulder and shook her head.
“There is no need for that in the Wonderbringer’s temple. Now, lay back and rest until I return.”
“Wait!” Kelemvor called.
Phylanna turned.
“When Rull is finished, please ask him to return,” the fighter said. “I would like to apologize.”
“I will bring him at the end of his next sermon,” she said.
“Alone,” Kelemvor said. “I need to speak to him alone.”
Phylanna seemed puzzled. “As you wish,” she said and hurried from the small room.
Kelemvor rested in the cell for an hour, growing more uncomfortable in the small room as his condition got better. The crowd of commoners in the Temple of Gond were noisy, and the fighter entertained himself by listening to their cries, which mixed in with Rull’s sermon.
“Tilverton will perish!” someone screamed.
“We should all go to Arabel or Eveningstar,” another voice cried.
“Yes! Gond doesn’t care about us, and Azoun will protect Cormyr before he protects us!”
Rull’s voice rose over the shouting, and he launched into another tirade against the people who had fallen away from their worship of the Wonderbringer. “Tilverton will certainly be cursed if we give up hope! Lord Gond has left me with healing spell, hasn’t he?” the priest cried, and Rull continued to yell over the crowd for a few minutes. Then the sermon was over, and Kelemvor heard footsteps upon the stairs again. He reached for his sword.
The fighter put his weapon down as Rull entered the room, obviously exhausted from his shouting matches with the people in the temple. “You wished to see me,” the priest said as he slumped to the floor.
Without sitting up on the cot, Kelemvor turned toward the priest and sighed. “I am grateful for what you’ve done for me.”
Rull smiled. “Phylanna was right. It really doesn’t matter that you do not worship Gond. It is my responsibility as his cleric to use the spells he gives me to cure anyone who needs my help.”
“And the good people of Tilverton really seem to need your help badly,” Kelemvor added.
“Yes,” Rull said. “They are losing
faith in Lord Gond. I am the only one who can bring them back to his flock.”
“If you fail?”
“Then the town will perish,” the priest said. “But that won’t happen. Eventually they will listen to me.”
“Of course,” Kelemvor said, “if the people of Tilverton knew that Gond had forsaken you, too, and your healing magic was taken only from the stone you carry, they would listen to you even less than they do now. They would all turn away from Lord Gond for good.”
The high priest stood up. “The healing magic is mine. It is a gift from the Wonderbringer to show the good people of Tilverton that he still cares. I will—”
“You will do what I ask of you, Rull,” Kelemvor growled. “Or I will expose you to the people of Tilverton. Even if I’m wrong, they’ll believe me.”
Rull hung his head. “What do you want of me?”
Kelemvor sat up on the cot. “I need you to help someone who is injured far worse than I was. I made a promise to keep him safe, and I have to uphold it.”
“I don’t suppose he worships the Wonderbringer by chance,” Rull said. “But then, that really doesn’t matter, does it?”
Kelemvor gave Rull a description of Cyric and sent him to the Flagon Held High. The priest was just leaving the temple when Phylanna returned to the cell. “I’m here to take you to your accommodations for the evening, brave warrior,” she said, grasping Kelemvor’s hand and leading him from the room.
* * * * *
Adon wandered the streets, trying to find someone to talk to. The heavy storms had abated, and the thought that perhaps he was unsafe on the streets at night, that he might fall victim to robbers or cutthroats, did not occur to him. Even after the cleric learned that there had been a number of bloody murders in the last week, he continued to roam Tilverton. He had important matters to attend to.
Beginning with the young man who had lain outside the inn, oblivious to the heavy rain and hail that had fallen, the reactions to the cleric’s inquiries about the town’s problems were uniformly apathetic. The eyes of the Tilvertonians had been closed to all but their own inner suffering.
The worship of the gods was meant to uplift the soul, Adon thought as he walked through the streets. And worship was a higher calling than any other the cleric could think of. Still, that same calling had been turned into a fountain of pain and bitterness from which the people of Tilverton had drunk freely, and it cost them all sense of joy and reason.
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