Shadowdale

by Scott Ciencin

  Marek turned to face Cyric. He shrugged. “I escaped. Have you ever heard of a dungeon that could hold me?”

  “What are you doing here?” Cyric said, ignoring the man’s boasts.

  “Well …,” Marek said, and rose from the bed. “I was on my way back to Zhentil Keep. I grew tired on the road. My documentation—the same documentation that gave me access to Arabel—was taken from a soldier outside Hillsfar. A professional mercenary, actually. He won’t be missed.

  “I claimed that I was on my way back to rejoin the conflict between Hillsfar and Zhentil Keep, which I assumed the people of Shadowdale would see as a worthwhile enterprise. My cover, I was certain, was assured. I didn’t know that Shadowdale was preparing for a war of their own with Zhentil Keep, and the guards demanded I join their damned army!”

  “What happened to your cache of magical items that you bragged about in Arabel? Couldn’t you have used them to escape the guard?” Cyric said.

  “I was forced to leave almost all of them behind in Arabel,” Marek said. “Are you expecting me to attack you? Don’t be foolish. I’m here to talk.”

  “How did you get into the Tower?”

  “I walked in through the front door. Remember, I’m a member of the guard now.”

  “But how did you know I was here?”

  “I didn’t. This is all chance, as all of life really is. As the guards tried to convince me that joining their army, even if it wasn’t my own idea, would be beneficial for me, they described a small adventuring troop that came to the dale and was welcomed into the Twisted Tower itself for their aid to the town. Amazingly enough, part of the party sounded very much like the band you left Arabel with. It really wasn’t hard to find you after that.

  “By the way, I apologize for the effects of the potion that laid you out. Actually, there was one magical item I had managed to retain—this locket,” Marek said, and produced a solid gold locket that had been opened. A drop of red liquid that resembled blood fell from it and hit the floor. The liquid hissed as it touched the boards.

  “I was shown to your room earlier today and told that I could wait for a few moments. When you didn’t arrive, I became bored. I noticed that the catch on the locket seemed as if it might break. When I examined it, it did break and the potion spilled to the floor. And that’s when you came in. Actually, I wasn’t sure that it was you at first, so I hid in the closet. Then you tasted the potion, and, well, here you are.”

  “What do you intend to do?” Cyric said. “Will you expose me, as you did in Arabel?”

  “Certainly not,” Marek said. “If I do that, what’s to stop you from exposing me? That, you see, is the reason for my visit. I merely wished for you to maintain your silence until after the battle.”

  “Why?”

  “During the battle, I’ll make my escape. Switch sides. Return to Zhentil Keep with the victors.”

  “The victors,” Cyric said absently.

  Marek laughed. “Look around you, Cyric. Do you have any idea how many men Zhentil Keep has mustered? Despite the preparations, and despite the advantage of the woods between here and Voonlar, Shadowdale doesn’t have a chance. If you had any intelligence, you’d follow me out of here, follow right in my footsteps.”

  “So you have told me,” Cyric said.

  “I offer you salvation,” Marek said. “I offer you a chance to return to the life that you were born for.”

  “No,” Cyric said. “I’ll never go back.”

  Marek shook his head sadly. “Then you will die on this battlefield. And for what? Is this your fight? What is your stake in all of this?”

  “Something you wouldn’t understand,” Cyric said. “My honor.”

  Marek couldn’t contain his laughter. “Honor? What honor is there in being a nameless, faceless corpse left to rot on a battlefield? Your days away from the Guild have left you a fool. I’m ashamed that I ever thought of you as a son!”

  Cyric turned white. “What do you mean?”

  “Just what I said! Nothing more. I took you in as a boy. Raised you. Taught you all you know.” Marek sneered. “This is pointless. You’re too old to change. So am I.”

  Marek turned to leave. “You were right, Cyric.”

  “About what?”

  “In Arabel, when you said I acted on my own. You were right. The Guild doesn’t care whether or not you ever return. It was only me that wanted you back. They’d have forgotten long ago that you ever existed had it not been for my insistence that we try to draw you back.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I no longer care,” Marek said. “You are nothing to me. No matter what the outcome of this battle, I never want to see you again. Your life is your own. Do as you will.”

  Cyric said nothing.

  “The effects of the potion are disorienting. You might experience some delirium before your fever breaks.” Marek took the locket and left it beside Cyric on the bed. “I wouldn’t want you to dismiss our conversation as a fever dream in the morning.”

  Marek’s hand had just closed over the doorknob when he heard movement from Cyric’s bed. “Lay back down, Cyric. You’ll hurt yourself,” he said, just as Cyric’s dagger entered his back.

  The thief watched as his former mentor fell to the floor. Moments later Mourngrym and Hawksguard appeared at Cyric’s door, along with a pair of guards.

  “A spy,” Cyric said hoarsely. “Tried to poison me … Came back to question me in return for the antidote. I killed him and took it.”

  Mourngrym nodded. “You have served me well already, it seems.”

  The body was removed, and Cyric climbed back into bed. For a time, he was poised on the brink of fantasy as the poison from the locket coursed through his system. He seemed to be trapped, half awake, half asleep, and visions ran through his head.

  He was a child on the streets of Zhentil Keep, alone, running from his parents as they sought to sell him into slavery to pay off their debts. Then he was standing before Marek and the Thieves’ Guild as they passed judgement on him, a ragged, bloodied youth they had found on the streets, robbing to survive; their judgement made him a part of the Guild.

  But of course Marek turned away when Cyric needed him the most—when he was marked for execution by the Guild and forced to flee Zhentil Keep.

  Turning away.

  Always turning away.

  Hours passed and Cyric rose from the bed. The red haze lifted from before his eyes. His blood had cooled, his breathing became regular. He was too exhausted to stay awake, so he simply collapsed on the bed again and surrendered to the tender embrace of deep, dreamless sleep.

  “I’m free,” he whispered in the darkness. “Free.…”

  * * * * *

  Adon left Elminster’s abode late at night, at the same time as the scribe, Lhaeo. The old man had actually shown concern over Lhaeo’s well-being as he sent the man off to contact the Knights of Myth Drannor. Magical communication with the east had been blocked, and armed with Elminster’s wards, the scribe would have to travel by horse to deliver the message to the Knights.

  “Till we meet again,” Elminster said, and watched his scribe ride off.

  On the other hand, Adon simply walked away, without raising a single word or gesture from the sage. He was halfway down the walk before Midnight caught up to him, and gave him a small purse of gold.

  “What is this for?” Adon said.

  Midnight smiled. “Your fine silks have been ruined during our journey,” she said. “You should replace them.”

  She pressed the gold into the cleric’s cold hands and attempted to warm them between hers. The breathless excitement she had felt all day was painfully apparent to the cleric. Besides attempting to fathom the answers to some of the mysteries that had plagued her all during the journey, Elminster had allowed Midnight to participate in some minor rites of conjuring. There were many instances however, when even Midnight had been shut out of Elminster’s private ceremonies that evening.

  The darkness
had already enveloped Adon when Midnight called out, reminding him to return in the morning.

  Adon almost laughed. They had set him in a tiny room and given him volume after volume of ancient lore to read so he might attempt to find some reference to the pendant Midnight had been given. It was a gift of the goddess, Adon argued. Forged from the fires of her imagination. It had not existed before she called it into being!

  “But what if it had?” Elminster said, eyes gleaming. But Adon was not blind. Interspersed in the lore he had been given were tales about clerics who had lost their faith, then regained it.

  They would never understand, Adon thought. His fingers touched the scar that lined his face and he spent the evening reliving their journey, attempting to spot exactly where he had committed such an affront against his goddess to warrant her desertion in his greatest time of need.

  By the time he noticed where he was, Adon was startled find how far he had traveled. He was long past the Twisted Tower, and the sign for the Old Skull Inn was just overhead. The gold Midnight had given him was still clutched in his palm, and he slipped it into one of his pockets before he entered the three-story building.

  The taproom was crowded and filled with smoke. Adon had worried that he would find dancing and merriment, but he was relieved to find the people of Shadowdale as preoccupied with their thoughts as he was. Most of the inn’s customers were soldiers or mercenaries, come to the Old Skull to kill time before the battle. Adon noticed a young couple who stood off to the far end of the bar, laughing at some private joke.

  Adon sat with one elbow on the bar, resting his face in his open hand, trying to cover the scar.

  “What spirits will you be wrestling with tonight?”

  Adon looked up and saw a woman in her mid-fifties, with a pleasant, robust glow in her cheeks. She stood behind the bar and waited patiently for the cleric to respond. When his sole communication was a wounded, dying flicker from his once fiery eyes, she grinned and vanished behind the bar. When she returned, she carried a glass filled with a rich, violet brew that sparkled and sputtered in the light. Bits of red and amber ice whirled around in the drink, refusing to come to the surface.

  “Try this,” she said. “It’s the house special.”

  Adon lifted the drink, and a sweet aroma drifted to his nose. He squinted at the drink, and the woman gestured encouragingly. Adon took a swallow, and felt every drop of blood in his body turn to ice. His skin pulled taut against his bones and a raging fire burned its way through his chest. With trembling fingers he attempted to set the drink down, and the woman grinned as she helped him in the task.

  Adon’s breathing was heavy, his head spinning, when he asked, “What in Sune’s name is in that!?”

  The woman shrugged. “A little of this, a little of that. A lot of something else.”

  Adon rubbed his chest and tried to catch his breath.

  “I’m Jhaele Silvermane,” the woman said. “And who are—”

  Adon heard a slight hiss from the bar. One of the ice cubes was dissolving, and amber bands drifted through the liquid. “Adon of Sune,” Adon heard himself say, then wished he could take it back.

  “Nasty cut there, Adon of Sune. There are powerful healers in the Temple of Tymora who may be able to help you. They have quite a collection of healing potions. Have you visited them yet?”

  Adon shook his head.

  “How did you come by such a mark? Accident or design?”

  Adon’s flesh tingled. “Design?” he said.

  “Many a warrior would wear such a mark as a badge of courage, of lawful service.” Her eyes were bright and clear. She meant every word of what she said.

  “Aye,” the cleric said sarcastically. “It was something like that.”

  Adon gripped the glass once more and took another drink. This time his head became slightly numb, and there was a buzz in his ears. Then that sensation passed, too.

  “A toast!” someone shouted. The voice was dangerously close. Adon turned to see a complete stranger raising a flagon above his head. The stranger wore a grizzled mane of stringy hair, and he seemed to be the veteran of many conflicts. His huge hand reached out and clasped Adon’s shoulder.

  “A toast to a warrior who has faced the forces of evil and brought them low in the service of the Dales!”

  Adon tried to intervene, but a huge roar went up as every man and woman in the inn saluted him. Afterward, many came forward and slapped him on the back. Not one shied away from the ragged scar that marked his face. They shared tales of battles, and Adon felt strangely at home. After about an hour, the stool beside him scraped against the floor and a lovely crimson-haired serving girl sat down beside him.

  “Please,” Adon said as he hung his head, “I want to be alone.” But when he looked up, the woman had not left. “What is it?” he said, then realized she was staring at the scar. He turned away and covered the side of his face with his hand.

  “Fair one, you need not hide from me,” she said.

  Adon looked around to see who she was talking to. The woman was staring at him.

  Adon found himself staring back. The woman’s hair was full and wild, with thick curls that reached to her shoulder and framed the soft contours of her face. Her eyes were a soft, piercing blue, and her elegantly chiseled features supported the mischievous grin she wore. Her clothes were plain, but she carried herself with the manners of royalty set at ease.

  “What do you want?” Adon said softly.

  Her eyes brightened. “To dance.”

  “There is no music,” Adon said, shaking his head.

  She shrugged and held out her hand.

  Adon turned away and stared into the depths of his newly replenished drink. The woman dropped her hand to her side, then sat down next to Adon once more. Finally, he looked over to her.

  “Surely you have a name, at least?” she said.

  Adon’s expression grew dark as he turned to her. “There is no place for you here. Go about your duties and leave me alone.”

  “Alone to suffer?” she said. “Alone to drown yourself in a sea of self-pity? Such actions hardly befit a hero.”

  Adon almost choked. “Is that what you think I am?” A nasty sneer fixed upon his face.

  “My name is Renee,” she said, and held out her hand once more.

  Adon tried to hold his hand steady as he took her hand in greeting. “I am Adon,” he said. “Adon of Sune. And I am anything but a hero.”

  “Let me be the judge of that, darling one,” she said and caressed the side of his face as if the scar did not exist. Her hand trailed down across his neck, chest, and arm, until she took his hand in hers and asked him to tell his tale to her.

  Reluctantly, Adon told the story of his journey from Arabel again, with little emotion in his voice. He told her everything, except for the secrets of the gods he’d learned. Those he saved for himself to ponder.

  “You are a hero,” she said, and kissed him full on the lips. “Your faith in the face of such adversity should be known, and held as an inspiration.”

  A soldier nearby laughed, and Adon was sure that he was the subject of the joke. He pulled away from the girl and slammed a few gold pieces to the bar. “I did not come here to be mocked!” he said in a rage.

  “I did not—”

  But Adon was gone, making his way through the adventurers and soldiers who crowded the inn. He reached the street and wandered almost a block before he fell against the wall of a tiny shop. There was a metal sign on the door with a name engraved upon it, and the moonlight allowed Adon to see his reflection in the metal. For an instant, the scar seemed barely noticeable. But as he raised his fingers to the ragged flesh, he saw his image distort, his face elongating so that the scar appeared to be even worse than it really was. Turning away from the sign, Adon cursed his weary eyes for betraying him.

  As he walked through town, Adon thought of the woman, Renee, and her fiery hair that was so like Sune’s. His treatment of the woman had been shameful. He
knew he must apologize. On the way back to the inn a patrol stopped him, then let him go. “I remember the scar,” one of them said.

  Adon’s spirits fell. He reached the Old Skull Inn, and after a few minutes of wandering the taproom, he sat back on his original stool and motioned for the attentions of Jhaele Silvermane. He related the story of the red-haired woman named Renee, the serving wench, and Jhaele merely nodded toward a darkened corner of the room.

  Renee was there, sitting close to another man. The enticing gestures she made toward him were similar to those she had used on Adon. She looked up, saw Adon staring, then looked away.

  “She must have smelled the gold on you,” Jhaele said, and Adon suddenly understood Renee’s true purpose in the bar. Moments later, he was on the street once more, his anger threatening to consume him. In the distance he saw the spires of a temple, and he made his way to it, passing the same patrol again.

  The healers of the temple, he thought. Perhaps their potions would be powerful enough to remove the scar.

  Tymora’s temple in Shadowdale was far different from her temple in Arabel. Adon passed between a mighty set of pillars that burned with small watchfires set atop them. The vast double doors of the temple had been left unattended, and a large, polished gong lay on its side before the doors. Adon moved to the doors themselves when a voice rang out of the darkness behind him.

  “You there!”

  Adon turned and faced the same patrol he had spoken to outside the Old Skull.

  “Something is amiss,” Adon called. “The temple is silent, and the guard is nowhere to be found.”

  The riders left their mounts. There were four men, and their armor had been dulled to allow them the full cover of the night.

  “Move aside,” a burly man said as he brushed past Adon. The soldier pulled the heavy doors apart and turned his face away as the stench of death welled out of the temple.

  Adon took a torn silk handkerchief and placed it before his face as he walked into the temple with one of the guards. Then the two men surveyed the bloody scene before them.

  There were almost a dozen people in the temple, and all of them had been savagely murdered. The main altar had been overturned, and the symbol of Bane had been painted upon the walls with the blood of the murdered clerics. By the fires that still raged in the braziers and the smell that lingered in the temple, Adon knew the desecration had not taken place more than an hour earlier.