Tantras

by Scott Ciencin

  Quillian quickly led Midnight through a few alleys. Within ten minutes they were at the ruined temple. “It burned to the ground a few weeks ago,” the young man told the mage as they stood near the heaps of scorched timber that were once part of the house of worship. “Rumors say the clerics destroyed the place themselves, just to spite the Tormites. The Sunites left the city right after the ‘accident’.”

  Midnight walked through the wreckage with the sphere of detection and was disappointed once again. After a few minutes of fruitless searching, she turned to Quillian and said, “Why did the Sunites leave?”

  “I really don’t know,” the dark-haired boy said. “But there may be a way to find out. In many circles, the Curran Inn is known as the Wagging Tongue. A few discreet inquiries, and you should be able to learn what you want to know.”

  Midnight shook her head. “Another inn? I suspect you’re just taking me there so I can buy you eveningfeast.” When Quillian shrugged, the mage smiled and said, “Very well. Let’s go to the Wagging Tongue.”

  Quillian led the mage west, to a small inn several blocks from the harbor. The taproom of the inn was filled to capacity, and raucous laughter could be heard a full block away from the tavern. To get a position at the bar, Midnight had to push between a pair of off-duty guards who wore the gauntlet of Torm. Quillian stood waiting behind her.

  Staring at the wiry, dark-skinned man behind the bar, the mage grinned. It had been a long time since the days when she had traveled on her own and frequented noisy, smelly inns like this one. And though she could remember all the points of “etiquette” that one used to be accepted in the company of crude, ill-mannered louts, Midnight felt strange about using it. She wanted to be able to ask her questions, receive the proper answers, and be on her way. That thought would have shocked her three months ago, when she still considered herself a “wild” adventuress.

  As Midnight pondered that thought, the innkeeper placed his elbow on the bar and leaned in close to her. His foul breath and bloodshot eyes shocked her out of her musings. “Would it kill you to actually order something?” the man grumbled.

  “That depends on what poisons you’re trying to pass off as fine ales,” Midnight remarked without flinching.

  The man tilted his head slightly. “Afraid I’ll get you so drunk that you’ll fall prey to my charms?”

  Though she quickly found that she hadn’t lost any of her wit, Midnight soon tired of the little game. She would have ended it and simply asked for some information, but the mage knew that she wouldn’t learn a thing if she didn’t play along for a while, at least. “Under those circumstances, I’d have to be dead, not drunk.”

  “Or dead drunk!” one of the two guards flanking Midnight said with a slurred voice, then broke into a fit of uncontrollable snickering. It took him a moment to realize no one else was laughing.

  Midnight let a slight laugh escape her as she said, “Give me a double of whatever he’s having. Then maybe you can tell me something.”

  “I can tell you plenty,” the innkeeper grumbled as he took a large red bottle out from behind the bar. Both fighters mumbled in agreement.

  “I’m sure you can,” Midnight sighed. “But what I’m interested in is that burned-out building a few blocks away. I understand it used to be a temple to Sune. I’m curious as to why clerics of Sune would leave a city as beautiful as Tantras. Beauty is what they worship, after all.”

  The innkeeper laughed as he held the bottle close to his chest. “I remember that lot. They used to come in here with their fancy clothes and their fancy ways, talking like a bunch of damn poets all the time. I only let them stay cause they had money.”

  “It sounds like they had it pretty good,” Midnight noted, wiping her hand across the greasy bar. “But I still don’t understand why they left the city.”

  The innkeeper snorted. “I suppose it’s hard to compete with a temple that’s got its own resident god. Once Torm showed up, their attendance fell off and those worshipers who were still foolish enough to worship—”

  Suddenly the pair of guards stood up and kicked their stools to the floor. All sound and activity in the inn stopped as the guards stood, glaring at the innkeeper. The guard to Midnight’s right, who was wobbling from too much to drink, placed his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  Midnight looked at the innkeeper and saw a cold, almost frightened expression cross his face. He took the bottle of liquor and poured its contents onto the floor. “It seems that bottle’s empty,” the innkeeper said when he was finished. “Is there anything else that interests you?”

  “Only a well-cooked meal for my nephew and me,” Midnight told the man.

  The black-haired boy took that as a cue. “Quillian Dencery,” the young man said winningly as he grabbed one of the guard’s hands and shook it vigorously.

  “Dencery,” the man muttered absently. “I think I met your father once. Good man. Fine soldier. This his sister?”

  “My aunt on my mother’s side,” Quillian said as he tapped his head and raised an eyebrow. “A scholar. You know the type.”

  The guard looked at Midnight, laughed, and turned away. Activity and sound resumed at the inn, and the mage and her guide were shown to a table. As they ordered their meal, Midnight kept a close watch on the guards, but neither of the men even glanced in her direction.

  After they ate, they left the inn and Quillian took Midnight to a small, featureless, and deserted building, not far from the tavern. “The worshipers of Ilmater, God of Endurance, used to meet here,” the boy told the mage. “The city levied taxes on the church that the priests couldn’t dream of paying. When they defaulted, the city guards put them in the poorhouse. Some even live in the House of Meager Living.”

  Midnight pictured the derelict who had attacked her with a spike in the poorhouse and shuddered. “What kind of taxes?” the mage asked quietly.

  Quillian shrugged. “Once word got out that Torm was in the city, Tormites from all over Faerun flocked here, putting a ton of gold in the coffers of the church. Of course, the government took its share, too. After a while, the city told the worshipers of Ilmater to match the taxes paid by the Tormites or get out. You can guess what happened.”

  “How very odd,” the mage noted as she turned to her guide. “In some places, the churches are exempt from taxation. Here, they’re driven away by it.” Midnight paused for a moment, then recollected her thoughts. “How far are we from Mystra’s shrine?” she asked at last.

  “Not far at all,” Quillian told her brightly. “It’s down in the southern section of the city, near the garrisons.”

  After a long walk, Quillian led the mage up a low ridge to a small footpath that had nearly been worn away from neglect. The path, in turn, took the travelers right to the Shrine of Mystra.

  The shrine was a simple stone arch, surrounded by a rough stone wall a few feet high, with entrances at regular intervals around its circumference. Midnight ordered Quillian to remain behind as she walked around the circle of stones, viewing the shrine from every angle. Then she passed into the circle and stood before the small, white statue of the Lady of Mysteries that rested under the center of the arch. Though she wanted to, Midnight found that she could not bring herself to kneel down and pray before testing the shrine with the sphere of detection. She ran from the circle of stones, then stopped.

  “You’re not a child anymore,” she whispered to herself, then took out the sphere and approached the shrine again. As she got close, the sphere vibrated very slightly.

  A residue of spells that might have been cast years ago, Midnight thought. The raven-haired mage turned away from the shrine. A large bell tower in the distance caught her eye. “What’s that?” she said to her guide, pointing to the tower.

  “A place where children used to play,” the boy told her, stifling a yawn. “Legend has it that the bell was made by the great mage, Aylen Attricus. He was one of the founders of Tantras. They say he was a thousand years old when he passed away, a centur
y ago.” The boy picked up a small rock and rolled it down the worn path.

  “He forged the bell himself, and built the tower, stone by stone, with his own two hands,” Quillian continued. “Then he used his magic to weave a spell preventing any mortal from ringing the bell. He inscribed some type of prophecy on the bell, but even the city’s scholars can’t decipher the code he used.” The black-haired boy shrugged and stifled another yawn. “All I know is that the bell has been there for hundreds of years. They say it rang once and somehow saved the city, but I don’t believe it.”

  “Why not?” Midnight asked.

  “Because the only people around who still believe that are wizards, and wizards never tell the truth,” the boy laughed.

  The mage frowned. “I want to see it,” she said grimly.

  A slight whistle escaped Quillian’s lips as he tried to work out a plan. “It’s in the Forbidden Area, where the army garrisons are laid out. The soldiers usually won’t let just anyone through.” He paused and smiled. “But they know me because of my father. You and I both have dark hair and deep skin. Maybe we can get in by playing aunt and nephew again.”

  “Then let’s go,” Midnight said.

  “There’s a problem,” Quillian said flatly, his hand on Midnight’s arm. “Morgan Lisemore, the commander who would normally give us access, is away from the city until late tomorrow. If I ask anyone else, there’ll be a lot of questions, most of which you won’t want to answer.” As he finished speaking, the boy tried to stifle a third yawn, but failed.

  Throwing her hands into the air, Midnight looked away from the young man. We’re obviously not going to solve this now” she sighed. “You’d better get some rest. And try to get us a horse for tomorrow. We’ll cover more ground that way.”

  As Quillian turned and started toward home, Midnight put her hand on his shoulder and said, “Thank you for your help, nephew. Meet me at the Lazy Moon Inn before morningfeast.”

  “Aye, milady,” the dark-haired boy said happily. “By the way, you’ll want to buy a sleeping mask before you go to bed. If you’re not used to it, the constant daylight here can make it difficult to sleep.”

  It was more than an hour’s walk to the inn. Quillian bade the mage good-bye again, then left her. There were no messages from Adon or Kelemvor in the room she shared with the fighter, so the mage tried to relax and sleep.

  After nearly an hour of lying in bed, the sunshine causing her to think in the back of her mind that she should be getting up, Midnight dressed and found the innkeeper. The obsequious, smiling man, Faress by name, located a sleeping mask for the mage and parted with it for the price of a tankard of ale, a rather large sum for a piece of rough cloth with a string attached.

  Before she went to sleep, Midnight tried to study her spellbook. When that endeavor failed, she sat down at a small desk in the corner of the room and wrote messages for Kelemvor and Adon. She retired then, and after sleeping fitfully, was startled awake by a pounding on her door.

  “It’s Quillian Dencery, milady,” a voice on the other side of the door cried. “You’ve overslept.”

  “I’ll be there in a moment,” Midnight mumbled and dressed hurriedly. The mage and her guide soon resumed their journey, now on horseback, and spent the day visiting deserted temples and places of clandestine worship. Through it all, the sphere of detection never registered more than a slight tremor. At the end of the day, Midnight accompanied Quillian to the military outpost in the southernmost district of the city. There they found Morgan Lisemore, a tall, sandy-haired man who was easily old enough to be the guide’s father.

  “If it isn’t Quillian Dencery,” Morgan said ruefully, then listened to the boy’s story. When Midnight’s guide had finished his tale of addled aunts and research trips, the soldier sighed. “You know I hate to deny you anything, lad. But there are rules to be followed.”

  The young man shook his head and pointed to Midnight. “She may be called back home at any moment, Morgan. This could be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for her.”

  Morgan looked up at the sky and sighed again.

  “Very well. Go on,” Morgan grumbled, then motioned for his guards to let Midnight and her guide pass.

  Midnight said nothing as she rode with Quillian to the bell tower nearly a half-mile in the distance. They passed a number of hastily erected barracks and were forced to detour twice to avoid groups of soldiers in the middle of training exercises. Soon, however, the Tower of Aylen Attricus stood before them.

  The tower was a gray stone obelisk. Within the monument lay a winding stairway that led to a bright, silver bell. The bell itself stood exposed to the cool afternoon air through large windows on each side. Midnight felt an odd tingling sensation in her back as she gazed at the tower and prepared to dismount. The tingling felt like a thousand fingers capped with razor-sharp nails lightly tapping the mage’s back. Midnight realized what was happening just as she got off the horse and her feet touched the ground.

  “Look out!” Midnight yelled and threw the travel bag from her shoulder. Quillian leaped to the ground. The bag was glowing with a bright amber light as it landed twenty feet from the entrance to the tower. For an instant the bag seemed to be on fire, and then the sphere of detection exploded soundlessly. The tough canvas sack was shredded, and the stone doorway to the tower was seared black from the noiseless explosion.

  Midnight walked over to Quillian. The boy was sitting up, but he scampered away from the raven-haired mage as she extended her hand.

  “You didn’t tell me you were one of them!” he cried and backed a little farther from Midnight.

  “One of who?” Midnight asked irritably.

  “You’re a mage! Your stinking art could have gotten us both killed!” Quillian yelled and rose to his feet. “I knew I shouldn’t have trusted you!”

  The mage turned away from the dark-haired boy and looked at the tower. I can afford to lose a guide, she thought. But not the Tablet of Fate … and from the reaction of the sphere, it just might be nearby!

  But the sphere was meant to explode when it came within range of any object of sufficient magical power, the mage recalled bitterly. It might have exploded because of the damned bell. She moved toward the doorway and Quillian cried out, “We have to leave! Someone might think you’re trying to blow up the bell!”

  “You leave,” Midnight hissed without turning around. “I have to see what’s inside the tower.”

  Entering the tower, Midnight was greeted by absolute silence. The sounds of the garrisons and the training exercises going on nearby, even the noise of the wind from the Dragon Reach, suddenly vanished. The mage looked through the door and could see Quillian moving his lips, shouting a warning, but she couldn’t hear his voice. Turning from the boy, Midnight examined the interior of the tower and found it completely bare except for the winding stairway that led to the bell. She climbed to the top of the tower.

  At the head of the perfectly carved, spotless stone steps, the mage gazed at the inscription on the bell. Sunlar, Midnight’s teacher in Deepingdale, had insisted that Midnight make a study of ancient languages. The message was a confusing jumble of many tongues, but it reminded the magic-user of puzzles Sunlar had created for her years ago. And then, as she stared at the strange letters and words, a blue-white glow erupted from the inscription, and Midnight found she could decipher it quite easily. It read:

  This bell was created to throw a shield of impenetrable mystical force over the city I helped to found. To protect my fairest creation from great harm.

  Once, my beloved ally, the sorceress Cytheria, rang the bell and saved the city from the dire magics of a wizard I battled nearby. It took great courage to stay and protect our home, though she would have preferred to fight by my side. Now, only by the hand of a woman with power and heart such as my wife had, and only in the greatest time of need, will this bell ever sound again.

  The mage pondered the message as she climbed down the steps and walked out of the tower. The sounds of
the day rushed to her ears the moment she walked through the doorway. Quillian was upon his horse, and he had led Midnight’s mount to the tower.

  “I put in a long day today and I expect to get paid,” the dark-haired boy growled. “Now let’s get out of here before we’re caught.”

  “Lead on,” Midnight said flatly as she mounted.

  The mage and her guide rode back to the checkpoint where Morgan was waiting. He waved them through without a word, and the pair rode for over an hour before either spoke.

  “Don’t worry about me keeping quiet,” Quillian grumbled without looking at Midnight. “I don’t want to be associated with mages if I can avoid it.” After a moment, he added, “I sense there are some hard times in your future, milady. Try not to drag any innocent bystanders down with you.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind,” Midnight told him, angry to be on the receiving end of a lecture from the boy. Although there was less than a decade between Quillian and the mage, she felt as if she had aged a hundred years since she called out to Mystra on Calantar’s Way two months before. She had seen far too much in the last few weeks to be scolded by a child who had probably never been more than a hundred miles from Tantras in his entire life.

  The riders came to the Lazy Moon Inn, and Midnight paid the amount that Quillian was due, along with a bonus for the hazards she had not warned him about in advance. The dark-haired boy rode away in silence, and Midnight entered the inn.

  Once inside the room that she and Kelemvor shared, Midnight looked for messages from either of her allies. The cleric had not picked up her letter, but there was a message signed by a priest of Torm next to the door. It was a short note, meant simply to assure Midnight and Kelemvor that all was well with their friend.

  The fighter, on the other hand, had been in the room, recently from the looks of things, and had taken the letter Midnight had left for him. In return, he left a scrap of paper with only three words hastily scrawled upon it.