Shadowdale at-1

by Richard Awlinson

  "You can be a part of this," Sunlar said.

  Midnight reached out to the weave, but stopped as she caught sight of her own hand. Her flesh had become translucent, and within the boundaries of her form, she saw a pulse of fantastic colors that mirrored the raw magical energy before her.

  "This is power," Sunlar said. "Power to build worlds, to heal the sick, to destroy evil. Power to serve Mystra as she wishes you to."

  Midnight was overwhelmed.

  "It is within your grasp," Sunlar said. "And it is your responsibility to take it, Midnight. No one else can be Lady Mystra's champion on Faerun. No one but you."

  The raven-haired mage was silent for a moment, then she said quietly, "But what does Mystra want in return for this honor?"

  "Your absolute loyalty, of course. And you'll have to devote the rest of your life to fighting for Mystra's causes all across the Realms."

  "Then she wants everything. I'll have no life of my own."

  Sunlar smiled. "That's a small price to pay to become a goddess's most powerful representative in the world."

  Sunlar faced the tiny world far below and spread his arms wide. "All this will be yours, Lady Midnight. You will be gaining the entire world as your charge. And without you, it will certainly perish."

  The fabric of the universe began to tear. Vast sections of the weave unraveled before Midnight's eyes, and images of the temple and Mystra's followers could be seen beyond the rips. They were screaming, calling out for Mystra to save them. Calling for the Magister to heal the Realms.

  "You must choose quickly," Sunlar said.

  The holes in the universe widened. In places Midnight could no longer see the weave at all.

  "You are the only one who can save the Realms, Lady Midnight, but you must decide to do it right now."

  Midnight's breath became ragged. The weave seemed to call to her. She started to open her mouth to speak, to accept her responsibility, when she heard a voice, soft but distinct, crying out with the worshipers in the temple.

  "Midnight," a familiar voice cried. "I need your help to save Cyric and Adon!"

  "Kel!" Midnight cried. "Sunlar, I must help him."

  "Ignore his petty concerns," Sunlar said. "Better still solve his problems by helping all the Realms."

  "Wait, Sunlar. I cannot forsake everything that makes up my life, everyone that I care about, on a moment's notice. I need more time!"

  "That is the one thing you don't have," Sunlar said softly.

  Eternity vanished. The weave was gone. Only the temple remained. Midnight looked down at her hands and saw that they were flesh and blood once again. She felt the sting of tears on her cheek and almost laughed.

  One of Mystra's worshipers moved forward. It was a man, and she recognized his face.

  Kelemvor.

  The fighter held out his hand. "Come back," he said. "The others need you. I need you."

  Sunlar grasped her shoulder and turned her to face him. "Don't listen to him. You have a duty to your goddess! You have a duty to the Realms!"

  "No!" Midnight shouted as she pulled herself free from Sunlar's grasp. Mystra's followers froze in mid-motion, and Kelemvor, now dressed in his fighting gear, stood before her.

  "You have dishonored yourself and your goddess," Sunlar said, his face fading into the shadows that fell upon the throne room like curtains, darkening the illusions. Then he was gone. In moments only scattered patches of illusion remained, and Midnight saw Kelemvor crawling on the floor of a room that once might have been an audience hall. A large, overturned chair that bore a striking resemblance to the throne she had sat upon lay in the corner. The musty chamber was domed, just as it had been in her illusion.

  Midnight looked down and saw that the pendant was still there, still grafted to her skin.

  "What's going on here? One minute I'm opening a door, the next I'm floating above the world, now I'm in a ruined throne room."

  Then Midnight noticed that Kelemvor appeared wounded. She ran to his side as he collapsed, but saw that his face and body were unscarred. Still, the fighter was sweating and seemed very frightened.

  "Offer me something!" he snarled, his voice low and very menacing.

  "What? What are you talking about?"

  Kelemvor flinched and his ribs seemed to move of their own accord. Midnight looked at him warily.

  "A reward!" he said, and his flesh began to darken. "For helping to free you from the illusion and for going on with the quest. We abandoned it, Cyric and I — "

  The fighter shuddered and turned away from Midnight. "Hurry!"

  "A kiss," she said softly. "Your reward will be a kiss from my lips."

  Kelemvor collapsed on the floor, out of breath. When he rose, his skin had returned to its natural complexion.

  "What was that all about?" Midnight said.

  Kelemvor shook his head. "We have to find the others."

  "But I — "

  "We can't possibly make it out of here alive without them," Kelemvor yelled. "So, for our own good, we have to do it now!"

  Midnight did not move.

  "We were separated," Kelemvor said. "Sent to different parts of the castle. I awoke in a library on the first floor. I followed the noise until I found you."

  "Noise? Then you saw and heard — "

  "Very little. I heard your voice and followed it until I found you. But we'll have more time to figure this out later. Now, help me find the others!"

  Midnight followed the fighter down the darkened corridors.

  After Kelemvor escaped through the tear in the carpet, it started to close in around Cyric, and it dwindled until it was the size of a large chest. The thief tried to slice the rug with his sword, but it was no use; the blade simply bounced off each time he struck at the trap. The carpet continued to shrink until Cyric felt it conform to the shape of his body and squeeze with such pressure that he blacked out. When he awoke, he was in one of the back alleys of Zhentil Keep, being kicked awake by a watchman, just as he had been regularly in his childhood.

  "Move along," one of the Black Guard said. "Or else nothing but steel will fill your gut this day."

  Cyric fended off the blows and rose to his feet.

  "Stinking vagrants," the guard said, and spat at the ground near Cyric's feet. The thief moved forward to attack the man, but something reached out from the shadows behind him. Hands were pressed against Cyric's mouth, others held his arms. He fought against the pull of the hands but there was nothing he could do. He was dragged into the side alley as the watchman stood and laughed.

  "Calm down, boy," an all too familiar voice said.

  Cyric watched as the guard walked to the end of the alley and turned off onto the street, vanishing from sight.

  The thief allowed his body to relax, and the iron grip that held him loosened. Cyric turned and faced the shadows. Even before his eyes adjusted to the darkness he knew the identity of the men before him.

  One was known as Quicksal, an evil little thief who took great pleasure in killing his victims. Just as Cyric remembered it, Quicksal's fine, golden hair was unwashed, and traces of dyes of every type could be found within it, as he generally tried to disguise himself. False beards, age make up, strange accents, odd personality traits — all these were part of an ever growing repertoire that Quicksal called upon to create vivid characters for potential witnesses to remember. His face was thin and hawklike, and his fingers were extremely long. Strangely, Quicksal still appeared to be in his teens, though Cyric knew he had to be at least twenty-five years old.

  The other man was Marek, and when Cyric examined the face of his mentor, he did not find the aging, hard-lined visage he had looked upon just the other night, when Marek ambushed him at the inn. This Marek was younger, and the tight, curly hair upon his head was jet-black, not the salt-and-pepper-gray it should have been. His skin had only just begun to show a hint of the wrinkles that would one day develop. His piercing blue eyes had not surrendered any of their earlier fires, and the man's la
rge frame no longer displayed any trace of flabbiness. This was the man Cyric had studied under, had robbed and committed now unthinkable acts for without hesitation. Cyric had been an orphan, and in many ways, Marek was the only father he ever knew.

  "Come with us," Marek said, and Cyric obeyed, allowing himself to be led through a set of doorways into the kitchen of an inn that Cyric did not recognize. Cyric had always allowed himself to be led, it seemed, and when they passed into the lighted hallway, Cyric noticed his own reflection in a nearby mirror. More than ten years had been taken from his face — the crow's feet were gone from around his eyes; his skin seemed more resilient, less hardened by the passage of time and the hardships he had endured.

  "You're probably wondering why we're here," Marek said to the grotesquely fat cook who stood near a curtain at the other end of the kitchen.

  "No, not al all," the fat man said, a broad smile holding up his blubbery cheeks. He pointed to the curtain and said, "She's right in here."

  Marek grabbed Cyric by the arm and led him to the curtain. "Look," Marek said and drew open the curtains very slightly. "There's our next victim, and your ride to freedom, Cyric."

  Cyric looked out. Only a few tables in the taproom were visible from his vantage, and only one of those was occupied. A handsome middle-aged woman, dressed in fine silks and carrying a purse filled to overflowing sat at the table, sipping a bowl of soup that had just been brought to her by an attractive serving girl. She stopped the girl.

  "This soup is not piping hot!" the woman shrieked in a voice that made Cyric's teeth hurt. "I asked that my soup be piping hot, not merely warm!"

  "But ma'am — "

  The woman grasped the serving girl's hand. "See for yourself!" the woman cried, and thrust the girl's hand into the steaming bowl of soup. The girl bit back a scream, and managed to wrench her hand free without spilling the contents of the bowl upon the middle-aged woman. The flesh of the girl's hand was bright red. The soup had been scalding.

  "If you cannot meet my needs, I will have to take my business elsewhere!" the woman said. She rolled her eyes. "I do wish I knew what was keeping my nephew. He was supposed to meet me here." She frowned and gestured at the soup. "Now take this away and bring me what I asked for!"

  The serving girl took the bowl, bowed slightly, and turned to walk back to the kitchen, causing Cyric to draw back before he was seen.

  "Relax," Marek said from behind Cyric, and the curtains parted, admitting the girl. She looked at Marek and shoved her serving tray into Cyric's waiting hands. She pressed against Marek and kissed him full on the lips. Then she pulled back, grabbed a damp cloth from the sink, and wrapped it around her hand.

  "I'd like not to wait for my cut this time," she said.

  Quicksal eased his blade from its sheath then slammed it back again, making a sharp scrape that caused the serving girl to smile. "I promise our benefactor won't have to wait for hers."

  "I'll second that," Cyric said, surprising himself with the sentiment.

  The serving girl winked at Marek. "You know where to find me this evening. We'll celebrate."

  She took the serving tray back from Cyric and went to a boiling pot of soup in the kitchen and ladled out another serving. Then she dropped the wet cloth and headed back to the taproom with the steaming soup.

  "Stay here," Marek said, and followed the girl. Cyric parted the curtains and watched as Marek spoke to the woman. Cyric dropped the curtain when Quicksal tugged on his sleeve.

  "Time to go," Quicksal said, and moments later they were once again crouched in the shadows of the alley behind the inn. The doorway opened and Marek ushered the woman into the alley. She looked around, disoriented and confused.

  "I don't understand," the old woman said. "You say my nephew has been beset in this alley, that he can't be moved, and — "

  Understanding lit in her eyes as Quicksal pushed away from the shadows.

  "You're not my auntie," Quicksal said. "But we'll take your money anyway."

  The woman started to scream but Quicksal pushed her against a wall and put his hand over her mouth. He drew his knife and placed it against her throat. "Quiet now, Auntie. I wouldn't want to have to kill you right away. Besides, this is Zhentil Keep. If your screams do draw someone here, they'll only want a share of your money."

  Marek grabbed the woman's purse and rifled through it. Then he nodded with a pained expression.

  "Alas, this is not enough," Marek said, and motioned for Cyric to move forward. Quicksal backed away from the woman, but kept his blade extended toward her as he did.

  "I have nothing else!" she cried. "Mercy!"

  "I would respect your request," Marek said sadly, lowering his head. "But I cannot deny the young ones their pleasure."

  Cyric drew his blade. Quicksal placed his hand on the boy's chest and snickered. "You'll never be able to kill her, Cyric. And then Marek will be stuck with you as an apprentice forever." The blond thief moved toward the woman again. "You might as well let me kill her, Marek."

  "Stand away!" Cyric said, and Quicksal turned to face him.

  There were tears in the woman's eyes. "Help me," she cried, her hands shaking.

  "Ah, such a dilemma," Marek said. "Who shall spill this innocent blood?"

  Cyric turned sharply. "There is no innocence in this world!"

  Marek raised an eyebrow. "But what crime has this woman committed?"

  "She hurt the girl."

  Marek shrugged. "So? I've hurt her many times myself. She didn't seem to be complaining," Marek laughed. "I think Quicksal should kill the woman. After all, Cyric, you have never showed me that you're ready to be independent, and the Thieves' Guild might not approve."

  "You're lying!" Cyric shouted. With each step Quicksal took toward the woman, Cyric saw his chance for independence slipping farther away.

  "A moment," Marek said, raising his hand to Quicksal, then turning to Cyric, "Does she deserve to die, just so you can have your freedom?"

  "I know her. She is…" Cyric shook his head. "She is arrogance and vanity. Privilege and prejudice. Content to ignore the poor and the needy, ready to let us die before she would raise a hand to help. She is distant and cruel, except when her head is on the block. Then she cries for mercy, for forgiveness. I have seen her type before. She is all that I despise."

  "And she has no redeeming qualities? She is not capable of love or kindness? There is no chance she might change her ways?" Marek said.

  "None at all," Cyric said.

  "Quite an argument," Marek said. "But I am not swayed. Quicksal, kill her."

  The woman gasped and tried to run, but Quicksal was far too fast for her. She hadn't taken two steps before the blond thief was upon her and her throat was slit. The woman collapsed into the alley. Quicksal smiled. "Perhaps next time, Cyric."

  Cyric looked into Quicksal's eyes and felt as if he had delved into twin pools of madness. "I deserve my freedom," Cyric growled and drew his knife.

  "Then prove it to me," Marek said. "Show me your worth and I will award you your independence. I will give you safe passage from the city if you want it, and I will make the Thieves' Guild recognize you as a full member. Your life will be your own, to do with as you will."

  Cyric shuddered. "Everything I've dreamed," he said absently.

  "But only you can make the dream a reality," Marek said. "Now be a good boy and kill Quicksal there."

  Cyric looked back to Quicksal and saw that the blond thief was now holding a sword that he did not have only seconds earlier. However, instead of readying to attack, Cyric's rival stood in a defensive posture and looked very frightened.

  "Put away your knife," Quicksal said in a voice that was not his own. "Don't you recognize me?"

  Cyric held his ground. "Only too well. And don't try to confuse me by disguising your voice. I know all your tricks."

  Quicksal shook his head. "This isn't real!" Cyric knew he should have recognized the voice Quicksal was using but he couldn't concentrate on it.
The blond thief took a step backward. "It's an illusion, Cyric. I don't know what you think you see in front of you, but it's me, Kelemvor."

  Cyric struggled to place the name or the voice, but it was difficult to think.

  "You've got to fight," Quicksal said.

  "He's right, Cyric," Marek said softly. "You have to fight this." But Marek's voice was suddenly different, too. He sounded like a woman.

  Cyric didn't move. "Something is wrong here, Marek. I don't know what kind of games you're playing with me, but I really don't care. I expect you to hold to your word." With that, Cyric lunged at Quicksal.

  Quicksal sidestepped Cyric's first thrust, and surprised Cyric by retreating a few steps and assuming a defensive posture. This isn't Quicksal's style at all, Cyric thought.

  "Stop this at once," Quicksal said, parrying Cyric's next thrust. Cyric moved with the force of the parry and crashed his elbow into Quicksal's face. At the same time, he tossed his blade from one hand to the other and grabbed Quicksal's wrist. Then Cyric rammed the blond thief's hand against the wall and forced him to drop his sword.

  "With your death, I gain a life," Cyric cried and raised his knife to kill the blond thief.

  "No, Cyric, you're killing a friend!" Marek screamed, and Cyric recognized the voice as Midnight's just before his dagger struck his opponent's shoulder. His victim wasn't Quicksal: it was Kelemvor.

  As best he could, Cyric pulled back on his knife thrust. But it was too late. The dagger sunk into Kelemvor's shoulder.

  Kelemvor pushed him away, and Cyric crashed to the floor, his dagger still stuck in his victim's shoulder. The fighter picked up his sword and started toward the thief. "Forgive me," Cyric whispered as the warrior raised his sword to strike.