by Troy Denning
But in her heart, Midnight knew that the warrior was no more responsible for the crisis than she was. He hadn’t thrown the spellbook in the fire, and even the halflings had not burned it in malice. It had been an accident, pure and simple, and nothing would be accomplished by venting her anger on friends.
However, Adon wasn’t helping to cool anyone’s temper. Several times, he had chastised Kelemvor for leading the company to Black Oaks, reminding the gloomy fighter that the spellbook would be intact if not for that detour. Amazingly, the warrior had accepted the assertion. Adon’s angry insight the night before had subdued the brawny warrior as no sword ever would, and Midnight resented the cleric for it. Despite her own pain, she did not enjoy seeing Kelemvor’s spirit broken.
Consumed by her melancholy reflections, the magic-user barely noticed as morning passed. By midday, the company was deep in the forest, and she still hadn’t set things right with Kelemvor. In part, this was because the path was too narrow for their horses to walk side by side. So, when Adon unexpectedly called a halt, she guided her mount forward and stopped at Kelemvor’s right.
“Kelemvor—,” she began.
Adon twisted around and held up a silencing hand. “Listen!”
Midnight started to object, then heard a loud rustle ahead. It came from far up the trail, and sounded as though an army were marching over a plain of dried leaves. Creaks and rasps, and then dull, distant thuds began echoing toward the company.
“What is it?” Midnight asked.
“I can’t imagine,” Adon replied.
Sneakabout slipped off Adon’s horse. “This is where I earn my ride,” he said, hustling up the path.
The halfling disappeared around a bend. For ten minutes, Midnight, Kelemvor, and Adon sat on their horses. The rustle grew louder, until it could more properly be called an uproar, and the creaks and rasps became squeals and groans. The thuds assumed a rhythmic cadence and grew into thunderous booms.
Finally, Sneakabout quickly came running back, his short legs carrying him at his best sprint. “Off the trail!” he screamed. “Now!”
The halfling’s face was so terror-stricken that no one even thought of asking for an explanation. They simply spurred theirs mounts and crashed into the forest, regrouping thirty yards off the trail.
When Sneakabout joined them, Adon started to question him. “What—”
The cleric didn’t have an opportunity to finish. A hundred-foot-tall sycamore tree stepped into sight, swinging dozens of branches like arms. As its roots twisted forward, an ear-splitting creak echoed through the forest. The ground trembled as the roots flopped onto the trail. Another sycamore marched behind the first, and behind it, a hundred more.
For an hour, the company watched in flabbergasted silence as grim sycamores marched down the trail. By the time the thousandth tree passed, the company’s ears were ringing and their heads were spinning. Kelemvor’s horse grew skittish, and he managed to keep it under control only with the greatest effort.
Finally, however, the last tree passed out of sight and the company returned to the trail. Their ears rang for the rest of the afternoon, precluding discussion of the peculiar sight. But as they rode northward, they saw thousands of huge holes where every sycamore tree in the forest had torn its roots free and marched off.
Just before dusk, they reached the northern edge of the forest. Eveningstar lay a mile ahead, oil lamps already lighting its windows. The town was unfortified, with about fifty buildings of significant size. The companions rode to the outskirts of town, then paused before entering. Memories of the murder accusations in Wheloon were fresh in their minds.
As a crossroads village, Eveningstar had a few stables, inns, and provision markets at the edge of town. Toward the center stood shops of skilled craftsmen who produced wine, wool, farm tools, and, Midnight noted, parchment. The streets were clean and peaceful enough. Although the shops had already closed, men and women moved freely about, paying no attention to the four strangers.
After pronouncing it safe to proceed, Adon nudged his mount forward. Midnight asked the party to wait while she knocked at a parchment shop, hoping the proprietor was still there. Unfortunately, except for businesses serving travelers, it appeared Eveningstar closed at nightfall. She would have to wait until morning to buy the materials for a new spellbook.
On Sneakabout’s suggestion, the heroes went to the Lonesome Tankard, the only inn in Eveningstar. The inn was clean and warm—a welcome relief after the chill ride. An expansive dining room, crowded with travelers and locals, occupied most of the ground floor. Midnight noted with approval that its wooden floors were free from dirt and grime. A stairway along the left wall led to the lodgings on the upper stories.
Sneakabout bribed the guard who was stationed at the desk to watch for unregistered companies. After accepting the halfling’s money, the guard studied Midnight warily. “You wouldn’t be a thaumaturgist?” he inquired.
“No, no,” Sneakabout answered for her, “she’s nothing of the sort. A lady of the arts, that’s all.”
The guard looked doubtful. “His Majesty King Azoun IV has decreed that enchanters of any type must register with the local herald when traveling in Cormyr.”
Sneakabout held out another gold piece. The guard snatched the coin away and said, “Of course, with all the folks on the roads these days, nobody can keep track of ’em anyway.” With that, he left the desk and allowed the company to conduct their business with the inn’s steward. After the company rented two rooms, the steward showed the four to a table near the back of the taproom.
A young serving girl immediately brought ale and wine, then asked if the company wished to eat. A few minutes later, she returned with steaming plates of sliced turnips, boiled potatoes, and roast pork. In spite of her mood, the aroma was enough to make Midnight hungry. She helped herself to generous portions of turnips and potatoes, but had only one slice of the pork.
Even with the fine food, the group had a dreary meal. Midnight wanted to apologize to Kelemvor, but not in front of her other companions. Adon and Sneakabout were the only ones who felt like making conversation, but not to each other. Adon tried to liven things up with a discussion of their route, but everybody else insisted upon postponing that chore until morning. Kelemvor was lost in his own thoughts, and Midnight’s patience was chafing under the relish with which Adon pursued his temporary position as group leader.
When the meal finally ended, the four climbed the stairs to the second floor. The hour was early for sleep, but they had ridden hard that day and would ride as hard tomorrow. Their rooms each contained two cots and a small window overlooking the dark currents of the Starwater.
“The men will take this room,” Adon said, indicating the one on the right. “You take that one, Midnight. I don’t think anyone will mind if we move a bed into the other room.”
“It’ll never fit,” Sneakabout said. “I’ll stay with Midnight.”
Kelemvor frowned jealously, but it was Adon who objected. “You can’t be serious!”
Midnight ignored Adon and smiled at the halfling. “Thanks, but I prefer Kelemvor’s company.”
Adon’s jaw dropped slack. “But you’re—”
“I don’t think it’s necessary to dictate sleeping arrangements, Adon,” Midnight said, her voice calm and even.
Adon shrugged. “You haven’t spoken to Kelemvor all day,” he said. “But it’s none of my business if you want to spend the night with him. I was only being considerate.”
Sneakabout sighed. After sharing the saddle with Adon all day, he had hoped to avoid spending the night with the pedantic ex-cleric.
Midnight stepped into her room without saying anything else. When Kelemvor didn’t follow her, she stuck her head back into the hall. “Are you coming or not?”
Kelemvor shook his head as if to clear it, then stepped inside. Midnight closed the door behind him, leaving Adon and Sneakabout in the hall.
Kelemvor glanced around the room nervously and
fumbled at the clasp of his swordbelt. He finally released it and laid the scabbard on the nearest cot.
“What’s wrong?” Midnight asked, slipping her damp cape from her shoulders. “This is hardly our first night together.”
Kelemvor studied her, wondering whether she had forgiven him or lured him in here to take vengeance. “Your spellbook,” he said. “I thought you were angry.”
“Angry, yes, and more. But you aren’t the one who threw it in the fire.” She managed a weak smile. “Besides, I can rebuild it, given time and parchment.”
The fighter’s face showed no sign of relief.
“Don’t you understand?” Midnight asked. “The book’s loss wasn’t your fault. The halflings threw it in the fire. You couldn’t have prevented that.”
Kelemvor nodded. “Thanks for forgiving me. But Adon was right. I went to the village for selfish reasons.”
“Your reasons weren’t selfish,” she said, taking his hand. “There’s nothing wrong with helping strangers.”
For a moment, Kelemvor’s fingers remained limp and passive, his emerald eyes searching Midnight’s. Then he returned her grasp and pulled her close. A long-smoldering ember flared to life in both their bodies. Midnight’s apology had gone further than she intended, but she did not care.
Later that night, Midnight sat awake, Kelemvor snoring in the cot next to hers. Making love with him had been different than it had been before Tantras. The warrior had been gentler, more considerate. She had no doubt that he had truly changed with the lifting of his curse.
But her lover’s curse, or lack of it, was not the source of the magic-user’s wakefulness. This new Kelemvor was more appealing and attractive than the man he had been before Tantras, and Midnight was thinking about what that difference meant to her. He was more dangerous, for he gave more and therefore demanded more in return. But the mage didn’t know how much she could give, for her art had always been, and always would be, her first love.
Also, there was the mission to consider. She was growing more attached to Kelemvor, and the mage feared that an emotional attachment would influence her if she were forced to choose between his safety and the safety of the tablet.
In the hall, a foot scraped on the floor. Midnight slid out of bed and put on her cloak, fully alert. An hour ago, she had heard Sneakabout’s soft steps as he slipped out of Adon’s room. Where he had gone, she did not know. The little man had his own secrets, as she had hers, and it was not her place to intrude.
But this step had been too heavy to be Sneakabout’s, for halflings could walk as quietly as snowfall. Midnight slipped her dagger from its sheath and went to the door.
Visions of thieves and cutthroats dancing in her head, Midnight cracked the door open and peered out. A single oil lamp that hung over the stairs lit the hall. Its feeble light revealed a man standing at the top of the stairs, waving the steward away. The dark man’s other hand was tucked beneath his dripping cloak. He turned slightly to study the hallway, and his hawkish nose was silhouetted against the lamplight.
Cyric! Her heart pounding with joy and fear simultaneously, Midnight stepped into the hall. The thief turned to meet her, his eyes wide with alarm.
“Cyric!” she whispered, advancing toward him. “It’s so good to see you!”
“You—er, I’m happy to see you as well,” he said, removing his hand from beneath his cloak.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, taking his arm and guiding him farther down the hall. It was less likely they’d be heard there, and Midnight didn’t want to awaken Kelemvor or Adon. “Were your arrows the ones that saved us from the zombie riders?”
Cyric nodded, his eyes narrow slits. “I trust the tablet is safe?”
“Of course,” Midnight replied, nodding. “And the Zhentilar who’ve been forcing us north? They’re yours as well?”
“Right again,” he replied. “I wanted you in Eveningstar.” His hand slipped beneath his cloak.
Midnight grew serious. “Why? What hazards lie to the south?”
Cyric frowned for a moment, then smiled. “The forces of Bane’s allies, of course,” he said flatly. “The Black Lord may have perished, but he had many allies—and the zombie riders are the least of them.” The thief withdrew his hand from the cloak again and laid it across Midnight’s shoulder. “That’s why I’m here.”
A sense of dread overcame Midnight. “If you’ve come to rejoin us, we must be careful. Kel and Adon have not forgotten Tantras.”
Cyric pulled his arm back hastily. “That’s not what I mean. I’ve come for you,” he said, “and the tablet.”
“You want me to abandon—”
“They cannot protect you,” Cyric snapped. “I can.”
Midnight shook her head, thinking of Kelemvor. “I can’t,” she said. “I won’t.”
Cyric studied her angrily for several seconds. “Think! Don’t you realize the power that you possess?”
Midnight shook her head. “I lost my—”
“With the tablets, we can be gods!” the thief snapped.
Midnight had the uncomfortable feeling that Cyric was talking to himself. “Are you mad?” she asked. “That’s blasphemy!”
“Blasphemy?” Cyric laughed. “Against who? The gods are here, tearing the Realms apart in search of the Tablets of Fate. Our only gods should be ourselves. We can forge our own destinies!”
“No.” Midnight backed a step away.
Cyric grabbed her elbow. “The gods are on your trail. Two nights past, Lord Bhaal butchered three of my best men. I’ll not burden you with the details of their deaths.” The thief’s eyes seemed to glow red for an instant. “Had Bhaal wished to stay for a day or two, he could have killed me and all my men” the thief continued. “But he didn’t. Do you know why?”
Midnight did not respond.
“Do you know why?” Cyric repeated, gripping her elbow harder. “Because Bhaal wants you and the tablet! You’ll never make it to Waterdeep. He’ll catch and kill Adon and Kelemvor, kill them in ways more painful than you can imagine.”
“No.” Midnight pulled her arm away. “I won’t permit it.”
“Then come with me,” Cyric insisted. “It’s your only chance … It’s their only chance.”
Down the hall a little ways, the door to the mage’s room opened. “Midnight?” It was Kelemvor’s sleepy voice.
The thief’s hand slipped beneath his cloak and closed around the hilt of his sword.
“Go!” Midnight said, shoving Cyric toward the stairs. “Kel will kill you.”
“Or I’ll kill him,” Cyric said, drawing his weapon. The short sword’s blade had a reddish sheen.
The drowsy fighter stepped into the hall, pants hastily fastened and sword in hand. Upon seeing Cyric, he rubbed his eyes as if unable to believe what he was seeing. “You? Here?” The warrior brought his guard up and advanced.
Midnight stepped away from Cyric. “Don’t force me to choose between friends,” she warned.
The thief looked at her coldly. “You’re going to have to make that choice soon.” With that, Cyric slipped down the stairs and disappeared into the dark.
Kelemvor did not follow, knowing that in the dark, the advantage would belong to Cyric. Instead, he turned to Midnight. “So, you were right. He followed us. Why didn’t you call me?”
“He came to talk,” Midnight replied, unsure whether Kelemvor’s tone showed hurt or anger. “You’d have killed him.”
Just then, Sneakabout came bounding up the stairs with a rope slung over his shoulder and a book of parchment in his hands. When he saw Midnight and Kelemvor, he nearly fell over himself. “You’re awake!”
“Yes,” Kelemvor grumbled. “We had a visitor.”
“You’re about to have more. A Zhentilar band is riding this way.” The halfling gave the book to Midnight without explaining where he’d gotten it.
Kelemvor opened the door to Adon’s room. “Get up! Gather your things!” Then he turned to Midnight. “Do you still be
lieve Cyric wanted to talk?”
“You drew your weapon first,” she replied, pointing at Kelemvor’s sword.
“Uh—can you finish this later?” Sneakabout interrupted. He took the rope off his shoulder.
“We may not have a chance,” Kelemvor answered. “We’ll never reach the stables—”
“No need to,” the halfling chimed, grinning widely. “When the Zhentilar started nosing around, I saddled our horses. They’re beneath my window.”
Kelemvor slapped Sneakabout on the back, nearly knocking him down. “Good man!” Then the fighter turned to Midnight and said, “Collect our gear. We’ll discuss this later.”
Though resentful of his tone, Midnight immediately did as Kelemvor asked. While the magic-user hastily packed, the fighter took the rope and looped it over a beam. Adon and Sneakabout climbed out the window and slipped into the saddle of the first horse. The warrior dropped the tablet and their gear to them. A moment later, Midnight returned with the remaining bags, then climbed out the window and slid down the rope to her waiting horse. Kelemvor dropped their packs to her and followed an instant later. The halfling guided them out of town by way of a back street, and they didn’t see even one of Cyric’s men.
“Let down your guard, friend Adon,” said Lord Commander Kae Deverell. A robust man with red hair and a deep, jolly voice, Lord Deverell sat at the head of a long oaken table. Behind him, a fire roared in a magnificent hearth, illuminating the room with flickering yellow light.
To Deverell’s right sat Kelemvor, and to Kelemvor’s right, stretched down the table like horses at a trough, sat fifteen Cormyrian officers. A mug of ale and a plate of roasted goat rested before each man. Iron candelabras stood on the table every few feet, supplementing the light from the fireplace.
Sneakabout occupied the first seat to Lord Deverell’s left, followed by Adon. The saddlebags containing the tablet rested on the floor next to the cleric’s chair. To Adon’s left sat Midnight, who was drinking wine instead of ale, and on her left sat six Cormyrian war wizards.
