Cyric stared at the water and said nothing. Midnight decided not to press the issue.
Adon began to extol the virtues of Sune and Kelemvor cut the cleric off by changing the subject to dreams and their fulfillment.
“Not to be depressing,” Kelemvor said, directing Midnight’s words back upon her, “but Cyric’s tales have meaning for us all. All too often I have seen men led astray in pursuit of their dreams. Then one day they look around and recognize all the joy and wonder they have missed because they were so busy trying to get from place to place and amass their riches.”
“That’s pretty grim,” Midnight said. “I’ve certainly known such men. Have you?”
“Passing acquaintances,” Kelemvor said.
“I don’t see what that subject has to do with us,” Adon said sullenly.
“It has everything to do with us,” Kelemvor said as he watched the almost hypnotic motion of the water. “What if we are killed tomorrow?”
Caitlan blanched, guessing where Kelemvor’s words were leading.
“As Aldophus said, ‘curious happenstances abound—and all burning hell breaks loose.’ Think of what we faced yesterday. Is anything really worth the risk of facing such nightmares again? Or things that might be worse? I have sworn to go on. But I’m willing to let any of you out of your pledges,” Kelemvor said as he looked at the water.
Adon stood up. “I’m insulted. Of course, I’ll continue. I’m no coward, despite what you might believe.”
“I never said that you were, Adon. I would not have asked you on this quest if the thought had ever entered my head.” Kelemvor turned to face the others.
Midnight saw that Caitlan was trembling, and the magic-user wrapped her cloak around the girl. “My pledge is to Caitlan, as much as to you, Kel,” Midnight said, hugging the frightened girl. “I will continue. There should not have been any doubt.”
Cyric had retreated to the shadows, out of the light from the pool. He understood fully the game Kelemvor was running, attempting to rally the support and enthusiasm of the company by calling those very qualities into question. Yet for Cyric, Kelemvor had merely voiced the same concerns that had plagued him from the beginning of the quest.
I can walk from this, Cyric thought, and no one would move to stop me.
“Cyric?” Kelemvor called. “Where’s Cyric?”
“I’m here,” Cyric said, surprising himself by walking back to the others, and taking his place beside them. “I thought I heard a noise.”
Kelemvor looked around suspiciously.
“But there was nothing,” the thief said and knelt down in front of Caitlan, to whom he had uttered scarcely a word during their entire journey. “For what it’s worth, Caitlan, you have my pledge, once again, to rescue your lady from the castle.”
Cyric looked to Kelemvor. “Some believe that our lives are predestined, that we have little control over them and might as well surrender to whatever fate throws at us. Have you ever felt that way?”
“Not at all,” Kelemvor said. “No one rules my destiny but me.”
Cyric reached out and grasped the fighter’s hand. “Then we finally agree on something,” Cyric said, and smiled, although in his heart he knew that he was lying.
* * * * *
They must be close, Bane thought. He churned the waters of his scrying pool until his arm became tired. Relief spread through him as an image began to form. Yet something was interfering with his attempts to spy on Mystra’s rescuers. Even when the water of the scrying pool finally became still, the image was hazy and indistinct.
Bane studied the nearly still portrait of the humans who had come to rescue Mystra. He was most interested in the woman, yet she was asleep on her side, and he could not see the pendant. He studied the others and a tide of laughter suddenly erupted from the god-made-flesh. Bane’s all too human larynx rebelled against the cruel treatment it was being awarded, and the roar of Bane’s laughter became a hoarse croak.
Bane stood before Mystra, who had been roused by the Black Lord’s cruel laughter. “This is what you send against me?” Bane said, pointing at his scrying pool. “They are even less impressive than Blackthorne’s description of them.”
Mystra said nothing.
“I had thought your saviors would at least be fit to provide some sport. But these four?”
Mystra restrained herself from showing any reaction, although she suddenly felt a glimmer of hope. Only four? she thought. Then the sending worked!
When Bane captured Mystra, the goddess had used a fraction of her power to send out a modified geas spell in the form of a magical falcon. The potential avatar it would locate would be young, with immense potential—an untrained, yet great magic-user. When it located Caitlan, there was an instant of contact between Mystra and the girl, and in that instant, the goddess instructed her to find Midnight and the pendant, and gather warriors worthy of her cause.
Mystra also gave the falcon a few spells to bestow upon the one who received her calling. One had been a spell to see into the mind of another, so that a proper champion could be found. The second was a cloak against any form of magical detection. The third and final spell had not yet been utilized, Mystra sensed. A tiny flicker within her essence had signaled the release of the first two spells when they occurred; no such sensation had arrived from the casting of the third. Not yet.
Contempt stained the features of the Black Lord as he spoke again. “At least they had sense enough to leave the child behind. There would have been nothing to gain from her death, other than your further discomfort. And I truly have no wish to cause you pain, dear Mystra. Unless, of course, you leave me no choice.”
Mystra had learned patience in her time as a prisoner of Lord Bane, and she practiced what she had learned with the utmost skill, even though she wished to let out a cry of thanks that her plan had succeeded up to this point. Caitlan had been protected from Bane’s prying sorceries; he did not know that she was still with the party.
“I’ll offer my lenience once more. Pledge yourself to my cause. Help me unite the gods against Lord Ao, so we may retake the heavens. Do this and all will be forgiven. Fail to take the opportunity I offer and I swear I will inflict the torments of the damned upon these humans who seek to free you from my grasp!”
There was a noise behind them. “Lord Bane!”
Bane turned to greet Tempus Blackthorne. The magic-user had pale, almost ivory skin, with long, jet-black hair that he wore in a tail. He wore a breastplate made of pure black steel, with a blood-red jewel the size of a man’s fist in its center. He also appeared to be insubstantial, almost like a ghost.
“Urgent matters require your attention in Zhentil Keep,” Blackthorne said. “Knightsbridge has been found.”
“Knightsbridge?” Bane said, shaking his head.
“The conspiracy against Arabel. He was our agent.”
Bane let out a deep breath. “The one that failed.”
“Lord Chess wishes to execute him immediately,” Blackthorne said. “Yet the man has a flawless record and he was set against impossible odds in his task.”
Bane ground his taloned hands together. “This is a personal matter for you, isn’t it?”
Blackthorne lowered his head. “Ronglath Knightsbridge and I were friends since childhood. His death would be a senseless waste.”
Bane let out a deep breath. “Let us discuss the matter. You will take my judgment to Chess. No one will dare to question it.”
Mystra watched as Bane and his emissary spoke. The God of Strife’s attention was consumed by the matter that weighed so heavily upon Blackthorne, and Mystra was grateful for the respite from his constant badgering.
At least I have a chance to escape, Mystra thought. That my intended avatar has actually found the one who holds my trust is more than I could have hoped for. I will not get another chance like this.
And then I will give Lord Ao the identities of the thieves, and I will be returned to my home!
There was no
time to rejoice in the moment, however. There was only time to act. Shackled as she was, Mystra knew that she could not escape her bonds. Yet her bonds—and the attentions of the hakeashar—had not completely kept her from saving up enough mystical energy to throw one last minor spell.
Mystra concentrated, and suddenly felt a connection with Caitlan.
Come at once! Mystra commanded, her words thundering within the skull of the girl. Use the final spell I granted you and come at once. Do not wait for the others. They will arrive soon enough.
Suddenly the connection was broken, and Mystra heard Bane’s footsteps. Blackthorne was gone. Bane stopped in front of the goddess.
“Have you changed your mind?” Bane said. “Decided to join me after all?”
Mystra was silent.
Bane sighed. “A pity that you will be dead soon. After all, how many more times can you endure the hakeashar? The torments it inflicts on you as it violates your essence must be beyond belief.”
Mystra did not stir.
“I will find a way to overthrow Ao with or without you, Mystra. You’d be wise to join me before I must kill you.”
When the Goddess of Magic remained silent, Bane turned from her and walked to the scrying pool, where he resumed the vigil for the guests camped right outside his castle.
* * * * *
Come at once, Mystra commanded, and Caitlan responded. Despite the words of the goddess, ordering her to leave her newfound friends behind, Caitlan was tempted to rouse Midnight or Kelemvor, and tell them of Mystra’s summons. Tell them that no more time could be wasted; they had to go to the castle right away.
But Mystra’s commands had to be followed to the letter, so Caitlan silently repeated the words to the spell, and was lifted into the night sky. Cyric didn’t even hear her stir. And despite her exhilaration at the experience of sailing through the air, Caitlan never forgot the somber reason for her flight.
The goddess needed her.
Along with Mystra’s summons, Caitlan had received a complex series of images, and by following the real life counterparts of these images she soon arrived at Castle Kilgrave and entered it undetected. Caitlan sensed a consummate evil in the place, although the dusty corridors she traveled through seemed harmless enough. Eventually the girl found the chamber where she saw the odd, glowing form of the Goddess of Magic.
Mystra did not appear the least bit human. The goddess had been shackled to the wall of the dungeon with strange, pulsating chains, and she hovered across the room from Caitlan like a ghost.
A horribly deformed man was in the chamber, as well. He stood in the center of the room, staring into an ornately carved tub that held dark, black water. Caitlan saw that his features were part human, part animal, and part demon. Turning suddenly, the deformed man glanced in the girl’s direction, but she stayed hidden in the shadows. It was as if he heard her enter the dungeon or somehow sensed her presence.
The dark man turned to Mystra and smiled. “I do wish the sun would rise, so those pitiful humans could come and entertain me.”
“They’ll do more than entertain you, Bane,” Mystra said.
Caitlan almost gasped. The deformed man was Lord Bane, God of Strife! He must have taken an avatar, like Tymora did in Arabel.
It was then that Caitlan knew what was expected of her, and she rejoiced in the knowledge of her ultimate fate. Before her, Bane shouted at the goddess, hurling vile threats against her, imploring the captive goddess to join him in some mad plan he had devised. Mystra did not respond, and Caitlan feared that the goddess’s essence was dwindling, that the goddess might die. Then she shook herself from such thoughts and waited for Bane to turn away long enough for her to cross the distance that separated her from the Goddess of Magic.
Then it would be Mystra’s turn to rejoice.
As the heroes crested the final hill and looked down into the valley where Castle Kilgrave lay, they saw the state of absolute disrepair the castle had fallen into. Kelemvor felt his heart sink as they rode to the ruin.
“Unless some creature got her or the ground swallowed her up, Caitlan is here somewhere,” the fighter said. “But I still don’t understand why she ran off.”
Cyric sighed. “I’ve told you a dozen times this morning, Kel: I don’t think she ran off. Caitlan was still asleep when I came on watch, and I didn’t hear her leave.”
“But that still doesn’t explain where she went,” Midnight said, her concern for the child evident in her voice. “Or how she got out of camp without anyone hearing her.”
“With all the strange goings on,” Adon said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if the ground did swallow her up.”
Kelemvor tensed. If the girl was dead, or even just gone for good, he wouldn’t get his reward. A slight ripple ran through his muscles. “Get off this horse, Adon. Now!”
“But—but—”
When Kelemvor didn’t even turn around to argue with him, Adon realized he’d best just walk the rest of the way to Castle Kilgrave. He didn’t like sharing a mount with the fighter anyway; he sweated too much.
Kelemvor turned his attentions back to the castle. There could be no question that Castle Kilgrave had once been magnificent. The castle’s design was insidiously simple, which made the place all the more intimidating. The keep was a perfect square, with gigantic cylindrical towers placed in each corner. Huge walls connected to the windowless towers, and a massive obelisk jutted from the wall facing the heroes on one side—obviously the entrance. The entire structure had the look of bones left out in the sun to bleach.
As the heroes got closer, they saw that the castle was three stories high, and was surrounded by a moat that had dried up long ago. Whatever creeping terrors the moat once held to frighten away thieves and assassins were now reduced to fragments of misshapen bone that jutted from the rich brown earth and served as excellent grips for Cyric as he descended into the bowl-shaped crevice.
“Try to climb up to the gate,” Kelemvor called to Cyric as the thief reached the bottom of the dry moat and started to climb toward the castle.
“Still stating the obvious,” Cyric muttered under his breath. “That’s our Kelemvor.”
The drawbridge stuck partially open, and the massive chains that worked its mechanisms were rusted together, refusing to make even the slightest sound as Cyric climbed from the moat to the base of the chains and grabbed hold of them, using the huge links as hand and footholds. Cyric climbed higher then, to a crumbling ledge, and followed it to the side of the partially raised drawbridge itself. There, Cyric slid between the bridge and the wall, and dropped fifteen feet to the floor. Moments later, he forced the mechanisms to lower the drawbridge.
Kelemvor, Midnight, and Adon tied the horses to the posts that stood as sentinels before the drawbridge, and took only their weapons and some torches with them as the bridge creaked noisily to the ground before them.
“So much for stealth and subtlety,” Midnight sighed. “Perhaps we should simply wait here for the owners to welcome us in, too.”
Adon found the mage’s comments amusing. Kelemvor did not. “Let’s just get this over with,” the fighter growled as he headed across the bridge. “We can still hope for some reward if we can find Caitlan or her mistress.”
Cyric stood at the gate, his sword drawn, waiting for a foul guardian to rush at the heroes as they entered Castle Kilgrave. But no creature reared its ugly head. In fact, the drawbridge’s loud descent seemed to attract no attention at all. “This is very odd,” the thief said as the heroes joined him. “Perhaps we’ve found the wrong ruined castle.”
Kelemvor frowned and led the way into the first, huge room of the castle. Visibility within the walls was difficult, even with the guttering torches the heroes carried. But it soon became clear that the vast main entry hall was completely empty, and the party headed down a corridor across the room from the gate.
Cyric looked into many of the small rooms they passed as the heroes made their way deeper into Castle Kilgrave. The rooms
he saw were all very similar—the shattered remains of a table propped up against one wall, the broken seat of a once-regal chair laying nearby, the decaying corpse of some animal that had found its way in and starved, or became diseased before it met its death in a corner. Other rooms were completely vacant.
The corridors themselves were framed by ivory pillars trimmed with gold at intervals of every sixteen feet. The gold had mostly been scraped away. The rugs that ran through the halls were water-logged and ruined, although the patterns and materials, visible even through the grime, revealed them as once-priceless fineries. The ceilings were arched, and the details of the intricate plasterwork representations were obscured in all but a few cases. The random images visible were odd, chaotic mixes that spoke of clashes between titans, and faceless monarchs who sat upon thrones made of skulls. Not once did the plaster hold an illustration of kindness or joy.
After almost an hour of wandering and finding nothing to substantiate the child’s wild story, Cyric put voice to the notion that troubled them all.
“Gold,” he said sarcastically, his words echoing wildly through the deserted and shadowy corridors.
“Aye,” Kelemvor said, wishing not to be reminded. A violent shudder ran through his body, and the fighter reminded himself that the quest was not over yet. He still might get his reward.
“Riches beyond imagining, adventures beyond belief,” Cyric said, cracking his knuckles to relieve the boredom.
“My limbs ache,” Adon said quietly.
“At least they’re still attached,” Kelemvor reminded him, and the cleric fell silent.
“Perhaps there are riches to be found here,” Cyric said at last. “Some reward to justify our efforts, at the very least.”
“Don’t you think this place has been picked clean many times before?” Midnight waved her torch around. “Have you seen anything of value here so far?”
“Not yet,” said the thief. “But we haven’t gotten very far.”
Adon was not convinced. “If Caitlan’s mistress was held prisoner here by brigands, human or otherwise, we should stay long enough to find the body and give it a proper burial. Perhaps Caitlan is already here somewhere doing just that.”
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