“Then the best thing to do is split up so we can cover more ground. Adon, you go with Midnight and search the lower floors. Cyric and I will search upstairs,” Kel said at last. “We must get some reward for this journey, and I’m not leaving until we find something of value.”
When they found a staircase, Kelemvor and Cyric departed to search the upper levels, hoping to find Caitlan—or at least some hidden riches in what had surely once been the royal bedchambers of the wealthy families who raised the fortress long ago.
Adon accompanied Midnight on a search of the castle’s lower levels. They descended the spiral staircase, the air growing colder as they made their way beneath the ground. Just as they stepped off the final landing and moved into a small antechamber at the foot of the stairs, Adon uttered a startled cry. A wrought iron gate had descended, impaling one of his billowing sleeves and holding him in place while two other gates shot out, one at each side, their long spears threatening to end the cleric’s life.
The cleric tore loose before the gates slammed into place, but he was now separated from Midnight. Adon looked at his torn sleeve, mourned it for no more than a second, and moved to help Midnight as she tested the strength of the bars from the other side of the barricade.
“Kel!” Adon yelled. “Cyric!”
Midnight knew the cleric’s cries would not be heard—at least by their friends. She turned away from the bars and was shocked to find a heavy wooden door, three times her height, blocking the way behind her. The door had not been there moments ago. Then there was a scraping at the door, and the sound of a voice crying out beyond it.
“Caitlan?” the magic-user cried. “Caitlan, is that you?”
Midnight leaned in close to the door and strained to make out the sounds more clearly. The door flew open then, revealing a long, empty hallway. The crying had stopped.
Midnight shook her head. “Adon, you wait here and I’ll see where this leads.”
But when she turned around, the cleric was gone.
* * * * *
Kelemvor and Cyric found the upper levels of the castle in the same state of decay as the ground floor. The only thing that seemed odd was the total lack of windows. Not a single opening had presented itself since they attained the uppermost floor, and each chamber they visited was much like the one before it, either empty or filled with broken furniture and tattered rugs.
At one point they came upon a huge chest, the lid rusted shut. Kelemvor drew his sword and shattered the lock. They both pulled at the lid, then recoiled as their efforts were rewarded by the sickening smell that accompanied their “treasure.” Within the chest they found the corpses of a small army of rats. The sudden exposure to the air caused the bodies to decompose rapidly, and they melted into a disgusting pulp that dripped from their splintering skeletons.
As Cyric and Kelemvor returned to the corridor, the fighter felt his muscles tighten and pain shot all through his body. “There’s nothing here!” he cried. The fighter dropped his torch and put his hands up to his face. “Get out of here, Cyric. Leave me alone!”
“What are you saying?”
“The girl must have been lying all along. Just leave my mount, take the others, and ride out,” Kelemvor said.
“You can’t be serious!” Cyric said.
Kelemvor turned his back on the thief. “There is no reward to be found in this place! There is nothing! I renounce the quest.”
Cyric felt something strange beneath his feet. He looked down and saw that, beneath him, the tattered rug had begun to reweave itself, its brilliant patterns spreading outward like wildfire down the hall in both directions. The rejuvenated carpet seemed to root itself into the floor; then it sped upward and covered the ceiling.
The corridor began to shake as if an earthquake was tearing through the land beneath the castle. Chunks of the wall broke free and fell on Kelemvor and Cyric, but the blows were absorbed by their armor and they protected their faces the best they could. Then the rug moved to attack them, as if giant, powerful hands were using it like a glove. The rug was clearly trying to grab the warriors and crush the life from them.
Cyric felt a sharp pain as the hands of the carpet grabbed him from behind and threatened to tear him limb from limb. He quickly slashed at the rug with his sword. “Damn you, Kel, do something!”
But the fighter was frozen, his hands still over his face. The carpet grabbed him in a dozen places.
“Caitlan lied,” Kelemvor said, pale and shaking. “No reward—”
The fighter let out an unearthly scream. Then he released a catch near his shoulder and allowed his breastplate to fall. The mail beneath ripped apart, and Cyric thought he saw one of Kelemvor’s ribs burst from his chest. Then Kelemvor stumbled forward into one of the the rips Cyric had created in the carpet and dashed toward the staircase, even as the flesh of his skull seemed to explode outward and something with green glowing eyes and jet-black skin emerged.
* * * * *
The Black Lord felt a smile run across his face. He had hoped to test the powers of the pendant and gauge the strength of Mystra’s would-be rescuers. His hopes had been rewarded. Each member of the party had fallen into a separate trap where Bane could observe them and work his dark magics upon them, tearing their souls apart in the process.
Mystra continued to struggle against her eldritch bonds, the proximity of the pendant driving her wild.
“Soon it will be here,” Bane said as he turned to the goddess. “Soon it will be mine.” The God of Strife threw back his head and laughed.
Mystra’s struggles ceased, and she joined Bane in his mad laughter.
“Are you insane?” the Black Lord said as he stopped laughing and moved closer to the captive goddess. “Your ‘saviors’ do not even know why they’re here. They have no idea the power they face, and they have no loyalty to you. All they desire is gold!”
Mystra only smiled, blue-white flames crackling throughout her essence. “Not all,” she said, and then was silent.
Bane stood no more than a foot away from the Goddess of Magic and stared at her ever-changing form. “The hakeashar will make you a little less smug,” the god said, but he was afraid Mystra had hidden something from him, some other reserve of power.
The surface of the scrying pool bubbled, demanding Bane’s attention.
The Dark Lord looked into the pool, and a cruel smile crossed his deformed face. “Your would-be saviors should at least be rewarded for their efforts, don’t you think?” Bane tried to cast a spell on the water of the scrying pool. A burst of light erupted from his hands, and six glowing darts flew wildly around the room. The God of Strife cried out as all the magic missiles struck him at once.
“Magic has become unstable since we left the heavens,” the Black Lord growled, holding his arm where the missiles had hit him. “Join me, Mystra, and we could make the art stable again.”
The Goddess of Magic remained silent.
“No matter,” Bane said as he started the incantation once more. “The magical chaos affects we gods far less than it does your mortal worshipers. I will eventually succeed.”
Bane cast the spell again, and this time it worked. The water grew hot, set itself to boiling, then became steam and reformed into sparkling clear liquid. The images the water reflected had changed dramatically and Bane watched with interest as the stage for the next part of his plan was set. He dipped his goblet into the water and let it fill.
“They are here for gold and riches? Fine, let them have gold and riches. Let them have their heart’s desire, though it may destroy them!”
* * * * *
The beast that had been Kelemvor relied on its senses as it padded through the beautiful forest. It recognized the scent of newly fallen dew, and the moist earth beneath its paws felt soft and burgeoning with life. The sunlight from above was magnificent; it warmed and comforted the beast, which stopped to lick a trace of deer’s blood from one of its paws, then moved on.
The trees in the garden touche
d the heavens themselves, and their branches, blanketed by amber leaves, swayed gently in the breezes that caressed the soft fur of the animal, sending a tingling sensation through its body.
But something was wrong.
The panther came to a clearing. Objects its limited mind could not identify rose into view. The objects had not grown from the earth, had not fallen from the sky. They had been placed here by man, and their purpose intrigued the beast, despite its low intelligence.
Suddenly a stab of pain bore into the animal’s skull, and the beast found balance and movement difficult. The panther snarled and threw back its head as something clawed at its gut from within. Then the creature let out a long, horrible wail as its rib cage expanded and burst. Finally, its head split in half and the thick, muscular arms of a man exploded from the ruined skins.
Kelemvor tested his limbs before he attempted to rise. Bits of the panther’s flesh still clung to him, and he clawed at the hated reminders of the curse his bloodline had fated him to endure. For now his naked skin was smooth and hairless, although he knew it would only be a matter of minutes before the soft tufts of hair that normally covered his body once again grew into place, spreading across his skin with a will of their own.
Abandoning the quest had caused the transformation this time, Kelemvor decided. Without a reward, going on the journey with Caitlan, risking his life, had been for nothing. The curse did not approve, and the panther had been the punishment.
In the clearing, Kelemvor found his clothing and his sword. His clothing had been soaked through with blood, and the clamminess of the wet leathers against his bare flesh made him wish to strip them off once again, but he knew that would be foolish.
He did not remember coming to this place that seemed to be far removed from Castle Kilgrave. The garden looked little like the flatlands of northern Cormyr. In fact, it looked more like the setting of a tale of romance, where knights jousted for honor’s sake and love always won the day.
Kelemvor knew that he was smiling, and memories long repressed flooded back. Before him the memories took flesh, as marble podiums, glazed in soft blue and pink pastels, formed from the air, and a vast library of forbidden books arranged itself. As a child in Lyonsbane Keep, Kelemvor had been denied access to the library except when an adult was present, and then he was only allowed to read military texts or histories. Fantasies, adventures, and romances were hidden on the highest shelf, where only his father could reach them.
In retrospect, Kelemvor wondered why they had been there at all. Was his father, the monstrous, mean-spirited man that he was, taken with these gentle tales? At the time Kelemvor did not think such a thing was possible. No, the books must have belonged to Kelemvor’s mother, who died giving birth to him.
From the amount of dust Kelemvor had found on those forbidden books on the frequent occasions when he disobeyed his father and crept into the library in the middle of the night, arranging the chairs and tables to give him access to the wondrous tomes, Kelemvor felt secure that the books were his private treasure, that even his father, at his most cruel, could not take away. In the books he found stories of epic adventure and heroism, and tales of strange and beautiful lands he hungered to one day visit.
Hiding in the forest, after having killed his own father, Kelemvor drew strength from those tales—and hope. Some day, he would be a hero, too, instead of a beast that killed its own kin.
And now a library, its huge shelves filled with wondrous exploits of heroes whose names and adventures had become legend, grew around the fighter. A few of the books flew from the circular arena that was forming in the forest, and opened themselves to display their secret dreams to Kelemvor.
He was shocked to find his own name mentioned time and again in the tales of bravery and heroism. But the events recounted in the stories had not actually occurred. Perhaps this is prophecy, Kelemvor thought as a story in which he saved the entire Realms passed before him. No, he sighed to himself, there could be no payment high enough to satisfy the curse. And if I am not paid in full for doing something that is not in my own best interest, I become the beast.
Kelemvor was so consumed by the words he read in the floating tomes and his musings on the Lyonsbane curse that he did not notice the changes that had been wrought in his surroundings until a familiar voice called out.
“Kelemvor!”
He looked up to behold a beautiful hall that had replaced the forest. The books vanished, and hundreds of men and women stood in the hall. They were perfectly still, standing high upon platforms or pedestals. By their garb and their stance, Kelemvor was certain they were warriors. Each was bathed in a column of light, although the light had no source and melted into the darkness above their heads.
“Kelemvor! Over here, boy!” the same familiar voice called.
The fighter turned and found himself face to face with an older man whose build and stature matched his own perfectly: Burne Lyonsbane, his uncle. The man was standing on a platform, bathed in light.
“This cannot be! You’re—”
“Dead?” Burne laughed. “Perhaps. Yet those who are remembered in the annals of history never truly die. Instead they come to this place, this hall of heroes, where they look down on their loved ones and wait until they are joined by them.”
Kelemvor backed away from his friend. “I am no hero, good uncle. I have done horrible things.”
“Indeed?” Burne said, raising one eyebrow. With a flourish he withdrew his sword and cleaved the air beside him. A shaft of light pierced the darkness and revealed an empty platform. “It is your time, Kelemvor. Take your place amongst the heroes and all will be revealed.”
Kelemvor drew his sword. “This is a lie. A travesty! How could you, of all people, betray me now? You were the one who saved me when I was a child!”
“I can save you again,” Burne said. “Listen.”
“Kel!” a voice called. Kelemvor turned, and standing beside the platform that had been reserved for him was a red-bearded man dressed in the fineries of a warrior king.
“Torum Garr!” Kelemvor said. “But—”
“I would pay tribute to your purity and honor, Kelemvor. If it had not been for your presence at my side during the final battle in our war against the drow, I would have died. You fought, despite the fact that I could pay you with nothing but my thanks. The way you often gave of yourself to protect others, while asking for nothing in return marked you as a true hero!”
Kelemvor’s head was swimming. He tightened his grip on his sword. In his memories, Kelemvor had turned his back on Torum Garr, and the exiled king had died in the battle.
“Kelemvor, thanks to you I regained control of my kingdom. Yet when I offered to make you my heir, as I had no sons, you declined the offer. I see now that you acted correctly and with honor. Your bravery has been an example for others to emulate, and your adventures have made you a legend. Accept at last your just reward and stand at our side through eternity.”
Another man appeared, a man who was the same age as Kelemvor. He had wild, ebon hair, and an even wilder expression upon his handsome features.
“Vance,” Kelemvor said, his voice cold and distant.
The other man stepped down off his pedestal and embraced Kelemvor, forcing the fighter to lower his sword. Vance stood back and regarded Kelemvor. “How fare you, childhood friend? I’ve come to pay tribute.”
Kelemvor had never even imagined what Vance would look like at this age. It had been ten years since the man had been attacked by assassins and Kelemvor had been forced to turn away from his pleas for help, his actions dictated by the curse that had always been the bane of his existence.
“You saved my life, and although the time we spent together was short, I have always treasured you as my first and closest friend. You returned for my wedding, and this time saved not only my life, but that of my wife and our unborn child. Together we discovered the identity of the one who wished me harm and we put an end to the threat. I salute you, my oldest an
d dearest friend!”
“This can’t be right,” Kelemvor said. “Vance is dead.”
“Here he is alive,” Burne Lyonsbane said, and Kelemvor’s visitors parted to allow the older man to stand before his nephew. “Take comfort in this place. Assume your rightful position in the hall, and you will remember nothing of your former life. The ghosts that haunt you will be laid to rest, and you will spend an eternity reliving your heroic acts. What say you, Kelemvor?”
“Uncle …,” Kelemvor said as he raised his sword. His hands were trembling. “I have dreamed of the day when all you have promised might come true, but the time for dreams has passed.”
“Is that the way you wish to see reality? Then behold,” Burne said.
Suddenly the book that detailed Kelemvor’s life of heroism appeared in his uncle’s hands. The pages began to turn by themselves, slowly at first, then increasing in speed as it progressed. Kelemvor realized the book was being rewritten even as he watched. The tales of Kelemvor’s heroism were vanishing, to be replaced by stories of his true past.
“Your dreams can become reality, Kel! Choose quickly, before the final tale is written over and your only chance to be a true hero passes you by!”
Kelemvor watched as the tale of his rescue of Vance from the assassins was revised. He heard a scream and looked up just in time to see Vance fade away from the hall. The history in the tome was becoming true, and his chance to right the wrongs he had committed was vanishing before his eyes.
Torum Garr grasped his arm. “Choose quickly, Kelemvor! Do not let me die again!”
Kelemvor hesitated, and the chapter dealing with Torum Garr was rewritten. The red-bearded king was again slain by the drow. Kelemvor was no longer there to protect him.
Before Kelemvor, Torum Garr vanished.
“It’s not too late,” Burne Lyonsbane said. “It is not too late to change what you remember.” The older man ground his teeth in desperation. He fixed his nephew’s gaze with his own. “You remember how it ended between us, Kelemvor. Do not let it happen again! Do not turn away and let me die again!”
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