“Adon, I want you to visit a man named Gelzunduth. I’ll give you directions. Cyric and I will need false identifications that will hold up under scrutiny. That fat old buzzard is a master at creating bogus documents. We will also need a false charter.” Kelemvor threw a bag of gold pieces to Adon. “That should more than cover your expenses. With your innocent face, you should have no problem convincing that pig to go along. If he refuses, come to my room at the Hungry Man. If I’m not there, wait for me, and I’ll go back there with you. I’ve a debt to settle with that man, anyway.”
Adon seemed confused. “Neither of you stay at the barracks, with the other guards?”
Kelemvor looked to Cyric.
“Part of our reward for bringing down the traitor,” Cyric said. “The independence was welcome.”
Adon frowned. “False documents? That’s hardly legal.”
Kelemvor pulled up the reigns and brought his mount to an abrupt halt. He glared at Adon. “You can’t heal. You can’t throw spells. You’re adequate in a fight. Buying false documents shouldn’t be too much to ask, all things considered.”
Adon hung his head and took the directions Kelemvor offered, then rode off toward Gelzunduth’s house.
“What will you do?” Cyric asked.
Kelemvor almost laughed. “Try to find a competent magic-user who’s not a woman.”
The fighter rode off into the night, leaving Cyric to pursue his own task, and ponder his own questions.
* * * * *
The streets of Arabel were deserted, and Midnight wondered briefly if a curfew had been in effect. She had wandered from the course the serving girl at the Pride of Arabel had laid out for her, and soon found herself lost. Midnight knew that this was for the better, as it gave her time to calm down before she found herself in the company of others at the Scarlet Spear.
Midnight touched the pendant—Mystra’s trust—as she thought of the blue flame dragon that had materialized at the Pride of Arabel. She had tried to throw a simple spell of levitation to impress Kelemvor, but somehow the spell had been altered. And though Midnight had remained visibly calm, and claimed credit for the dragon as if it was what she had intended to create, she had been terrified.
The magic-user touched the pendant once more. Perhaps it had something to do with the dragon. Then again, perhaps it was only the unstable nature of magic that caused the dragon to appear.
Unable to decide the real source of the misfired spell, Midnight turned her attention to finding the Scarlet Spear.
Then, in the street ahead of her, Midnight saw a horse, and a man called out to her. It was Thurbrand, the mercenary who had challenged Kelemvor at the inn.
“Fair daffodil!”
“I am known as Midnight,” she said as the man approached. There was no one else on the street. The name he called her brought a slight tinge of amusement to Midnight, despite the cries of her better nature to beware the smiling man before her.
“I am no one’s ‘fair daffodil.’ ”
“Then there is no justice in this world,” Thurbrand said, his green eyes picking up the light from the brilliant moon overhead.
“What do you want, Dragon Eyes?”
“Ah, I see Kelemvor’s tender mercies have not left you unscarred,” Thurbrand said softly. “He has that effect on many who wish to embrace his friendship. He has suffered much, Lady Midnight, and he inflicts that suffering on all those around him.”
“Just ‘Midnight,’ ” the magic-user said as she felt a sudden chill and pulled her cloak tight about her shoulders.
Thurbrand smiled and brushed a strand of hair that had revealed a bare spot back in place. “Come, I offer a place to rest for the night, and company who will appreciate one as lovely and capable as yourself.”
Thurbrand turned and walked in the direction of his horse. “Perhaps we can discuss business as well.”
Either Midnight’s eyes deceived her, or the horse Thurbrand walked toward was adorned with a blood-red mane; a horse that was the very image of the one she had been separated from outside the city of Arabel. Heart racing, Midnight watched as Thurbrand stopped and looked over his shoulder. Midnight sauntered to his side, smiling as a plan began to form in her mind. Perhaps Thurbrand would be able to assist Midnight in proving to that overbearing fool Kelemvor that she was not a woman to be trifled with, although Thurbrand himself would not have cared for the direction her thoughts had taken.
“More specifically, the business that scoundrel Kelemvor did not have the sense to employ you for. There is much I would like to know.”
Midnight frowned and cast a forget spell upon Thurbrand. There was a soft, blue-white flash at the base of his skull and Thurbrand cocked his head in annoyance, swatting at the back of his neck. “Damn bugs,” he said sharply. “Now, what were we talking about?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Strange,” Thurbrand said as he mounted the ebony stallion, then looked to Midnight who held out her hand. Midnight leaped, sinking her boot into the fighter’s hand, almost dragging him off the mount as she settled comfortably on it herself.
“Strange?” she said.
“I can’t seem to remember either.” Thurbrand shrugged. “I suppose it was of no matter.”
“Aye,” Midnight said, and she gave the mount a gentle kick. Then she held on tightly as the riders suddenly found themselves in motion, racing through the night. “I suppose you’re right. Lovely mount you’ve got.”
“Purchased him just last week. Somewhat unruly, but fearless in battle.”
Midnight grinned and patted the flank of the horse. “Takes after his master, I would guess.”
Thurbrand laughed and rested his gloved hand on Midnight’s bare knee, then removed it as the horse shot forward, forcing him to hold the horse’s reins or risk falling.
Midnight wondered if she knew a spell to make the man keep his paws to himself, and his head on his own pillow in the dead of night. In truth, it didn’t matter. If Midnight chose not to entertain company this evening and if her magic failed her, she still had her knife.
A knife always worked.
Midnight smiled to herself and relaxed slightly. Kelemvor wouldn’t turn her away after he saw what she was going to do to Thurbrand.
* * * * *
Kelemvor returned from his fruitless quest angry and tired. He found Adon mysteriously bunked out on the floor, and roused the man long enough to find that all had gone according to plan: Gelzunduth had provided the false documents. Once Kelemvor had the papers, Adon crawled back to his bed of crumpled blankets on the floor and immediately fell asleep.
The fighter wanted to know how the mission had gone and, more importantly, why Adon was not spending the night in the temple, but he was relieved Adon hadn’t volunteered an explanation. A vivid memory of an evening spent on watch, listening to the cleric endlessly praise his goddess, and himself for that matter, was enough to keep Kelemvor from asking for an explanation of even the simplest matter: Adon would invariably turn the conversation into a chance to praise Sune.
Hours later, when Kelemvor was sound asleep, Adon woke from his dreamless slumber and found he could not return to sleep. The cleric had feared he would find an armed guard waiting to escort him back to the dungeon at his humble quarters in the Temple of Sune, and so he had avoided the temple completely that night. Adon was grateful to Kelemvor for his generosity in letting him stay the night, but he had learned it was unwise to voice such sentiments to the man. He would find some other way to give thanks.
Of course, Adon knew that he was being overcautious. After all, Myrmeen had given him until highsun the following day to leave Arabel. But if her mood had changed, he might have found himself on the receiving end of an assassin’s sword. His experience with the serving wench at the Pride of Arabel had made him wary.
So Adon dressed in the semi-darkness, attempting to ignore the condition of the room. The cleric’s quarters had always been meticulously kept; Kelemvor’s room looked as if
some minor disaster had swept through the place, leaving weapons, maps, dirty clothing, and bits of half-eaten dinners laying everywhere. Judging from the look of the room, Kelemvor did not allow the cleaners access under any circumstances.
Realizing he should at least try to retrieve his belongings, Adon left the inn, and nervously traveled the back streets to the Temple of Sune. Once he reached the temple, he saw no signs of any guard, so he entered and charged a fellow Sunite with the task of retrieving certain belongings from his adobe. The Sunite rumbled some less than good-natured threats, mostly concerned with battering Adon’s thick skull with his flail for having disturbed his slumber. However, once his fellow cleric understood that Adon was to be taking permanent leave, he acquiesced with enthusiasm.
When the Sunite returned from the adobe, Adon checked to be sure he had packed his war hammer, as he would likely need it from the girl’s description of the castle. Then Adon returned to the Hungry Man Inn, cleared a small section of the floor for his belongings, and fell into a deep sleep.
Come first light of morning, Cyric woke the slumbering pair with news that his mission had also proceeded smoothly. Kelemvor immediately dressed and went to check on Caitlan’s condition. He was pleasantly surprised to find her sitting up, attacking the breakfast that Zehla had only just brought.
“Kelemvor!” Caitlan cried when she saw the fighter. “When do we leave?”
Zehla gave Kelemvor a warning glance.
“As soon as you are able. And—”
“Is Midnight with you? I have such questions for her,” Caitlan said. “She’s a wonder, don’t you think? So beautiful and intelligent and talented—”
“She won’t be coming with us,” Kelemvor said, noting the distressing effect his words had on Caitlan. The girl turned pale before his eyes.
“She has to come with us,” Caitlan said.
“There are other magic-users—”
“It’s my quest,” Caitlan said, her true age showing for the first time. “You take Midnight or you don’t go at all!”
Kelemvor rubbed his forehead. “You don’t understand. Zehla, explain to her that a woman is not appropriate for a mission of this type.”
Zehla rose from the bed and crossed her arms. “And a child is?”
Kelemvor realized he had been defeated, and gave in with a sigh. His quest for a magic-user the previous evening had been futile. The few mages who had shown any interest in the adventure were enthusiastic, but quite incompetent. One mage even burned himself out of house and home in an attempt to prove his worth.
“I suppose I could try to find her,” Kelemvor said. “But Arabel is a large city. It may take more time than we have.”
Caitlan looked away. “Then we’ll wait.”
“What about your lady?” Kelemvor said suspiciously, and again his words produced distressing effects.
“We’ll wait just a little while,” Caitlan said softly.
Zehla ushered Kelemvor out of the small room and joined him in the hallway. “I noticed the healing potions Were untouched,” Zehla said.
“I’m many things,” Kelemvor said. “But I’m not a thief. Do you have any idea what caused her condition?”
“Exposure, exhaustion … her system was weak, and susceptible to any illness. It seems she’d been wandering the city for quite some time, trying to choose her champion.”
Adon and Cyric had entered the hallway in time to hear this, and immediately joined the discussion.
“That’s flattering,” Adon said brightly. “She must have seen something special in you, Kelemvor.”
“Actually, she’d become desperate. Kelemvor was simply the first likely candidate to speak to her,” Zehla said. “She’s a talkative little thing, once you get her going.”
Kelemvor flinched slightly. What else had the girl mentioned to Zehla? Had she revealed his secret?
“We have work to do,” Kelemvor said, and motioned for Cyric and Adon to follow.
Escaping unnoticed from the city would be a difficult matter. Both Kelemvor and Cyric would be expected on duty shortly after eveningfeast. Cyric may have had stealth enough to make it past anxious guards or over unclimbable walls, but the squarely built fighter with a child, a foppish cleric, and a magic-user in tow surely could not.
“Cyric, go buy clothing and whatever else you think we could use to disguise ourselves. Adon, try to find Midnight. We’re going to … have to settle for her. I’ll be here, finishing the packing and working on a plan,” Kel said as soon as the three adventurers got outside.
An hour later, when Kelemvor emerged from his room, he almost collided with two of Zehla’s men carrying armfuls of food. Outside, he found Cyric and Adon packing the supplies with a surprising lightness of step.
Adon grinned and nodded to the shadows of the stables, from which Midnight appeared, leading a magnificent black horse with a blazing red mane. Kelemvor’s shoulders slumped in defeat, the memory of Caitlan’s face and the possible loss of the gold she had promised weighing down his acid tongue.
“Do you gamble, Kel?” Midnight asked, playfully.
“It seems I am about to,” he grumbled.
Midnight held out her hand. In it, she had a huge, braided tangle that resembled the head of a mop. “Courtesy of your friend, Thurbrand,” Midnight said. Kelemvor recognized the strands as human hair; all the human hair, it seemed, that had been left on Thurbrand’s head.
“Is he?…”
“Quite upset, aye.”
Kelemvor smirked, despite himself. “You just mentioned gambling?”
Midnight nodded. “Consider this my stake to enter your game.”
This time Kelemvor did laugh, a hearty laugh that was cut short as he noticed the disguises that peaked out from the packages that sat beside Cyric’s mount. He examined the packages to find wigs, surprisingly lifelike masks, and the tattered dresses of a pair of elderly beggar women.
Caitlan appeared behind them, looking bright and healthy. She greeted Midnight as if the woman had been the answer to her prayers, then looked beyond the party, as if to a sight beyond the walls of Arabel, her expression once again turning serious.
“We must go,” Caitlan said gravely. “There isn’t much time.”
Midnight looked to Kelemvor. “I can help Adon with the supplies, if you’d like.”
Kelemvor nodded, and snatched up the packages that contained their disguises. Cyric followed him into the inn.
“What’s the name of the place we’re going to again?” Midnight asked.
“Castle Kilgrave,” Adon said.
Midnight shrugged and removed her cloak to work more freely. Her blue-white star pendant glared in the sunlight as she placed her cloak on her mount’s back.
In the shadows of the stables, a single shade broke away from the darkness, assumed the form of a raven, then burst from the stables and flew over the heads of the adventurers, flying at speeds no creature of nature could ever attain.
Bane had not been idle in the two weeks since the time of Arrival, as his worshipers now called the night he was thrown from the heavens. Almost constant activity was needed to avert his attention from his distressingly mortal state, and on the few occasions when he allowed himself to turn his attentions inward and examine the frail mortal shell that necessity had forced him to assume, the Black Lord became lost in the endless intricacies of the machine that gave him movement and voice.
Such gifts and miracles he found within the submicroscopic areas surrounding the cortex! And when he immersed his consciousness in but a single cell of the body’s endless stream of blood and allowed the path of his explorations to be decided by the body itself, Bane felt a rapture that rivaled godhood itself.
It was then he understood the trap and forced himself to pull away. He placed barricades within the brain of the body he was forced to inhabit, and fortified his perceptions in an effort to train them outward, ever outward, and never again succumb to the dangers locked within his mortal frame. Bane was a god;
miracles had always been boring and commonplace to him before. But now the miracles of the Planes were locked away from him, and he would have to concentrate on the task before him, so that he might one day soon reclaim the heavens and satisfy his ever-gnawing hunger for miracles and wonder in a manner that befitted a god.
During Bane’s first days in Zhentil Keep, the human rulers of the city fell on their knees in his presence and placed all their assets at Bane’s disposal. Bane was grateful the coup had been bloodless; he would need as much human fodder to grease the wheels of his machinations as he could get his talon-shaped grip on.
Construction of the Black Lord’s new temple had begun, and soon the rubble was cleared away and makeshift walls rose to hide the intricate planning sessions Bane called. Although Lord Chess, sensing his own position as nominal ruler of Zhentil Keep at risk, offered to place himself and his staff at Bane’s disposal, Bane chose to remain near his black throne. Besides, he didn’t care to experience the boredom of the day to day operations of the city, so long as its occupants were loyal and ready to become sacrifices at a moment’s notice.
On his third night in the Realms, Bane began to dream, and in his dreams he saw Mystra, smiling in the face of terror, laughing at Ao as the gods were delivered to their fate. Bane, the giver of nightmares, had finally fallen prey to one himself. He cursed his flesh for sharing this new weakness with him. Still, the nightmare served a purpose, and Bane once again pondered the meaning of Mystra’s enigmatic farewell to the Planes.
So Bane decided he should seek out Mystra and discover why she viewed Ao’s wrath so calmly.
Five days after the time of Arrival, Tempus Blackthorne, a mage of great power and importance, arrived with the news of Mystra’s location in the Realms. Bane set a seal upon the doors leading to his private chamber and teleported Blackthorne and himself to Castle Kilgrave. They found Mystra outside the castle, weakened and helpless from some trauma or attack. Perhaps she had attempted a spell that had gone awry, Bane thought, and laughed at the irony.
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