by Troy Denning
Finally, Midnight realized that though she did not know where she was, it was somewhere more or less beneath Dragonspear Castle. According to Bhaal, the entrance to the Realm of the Dead was also beneath the castle’s ruins.
Midnight concluded that the smartest thing to do was explore the cavern. With luck, she would find either Kelemvor or the Realm of the Dead. Unfortunately, she would need a light. The magic-user thought of using her dagger’s molten metal to ignite something as a torch, but did not have anything with her that would burn long enough to do her any good.
She had no choice except to try using her magic again. Midnight removed her dagger’s sheath from its belt, then summoned the incantation for creating light. This time, a bright flash appeared. The unexpected burst of light hurt the mage’s eyes, leaving her stunned and dazed with white spots swimming in her vision.
A few moments later, her sight returned to normal and the mage saw that she remained in total darkness. Her magic had again failed. Midnight decided to do without light for now, then started walking along the shore of the pond. She moved slowly and carefully, testing her footing with each step and waving her hands in front of her head to locate unseen obstacles.
Every few moments, she paused to call Kelemvor. Soon, Midnight discovered that the echo of her voice provided hints about the size and shape of the cavern. The longer it took the echo to return to her, the farther away from the cavern wall she was. By turning in a circle and calling Kelemvor’s name, she could get an idea of the cavern’s shape.
Armed with this discovery, she soon circled the pond. It seemed to be about a hundred yards in diameter, though it was difficult to be sure with all of the twists and turns in its shoreline. The only audible inlet was the waterfall, and the only outlet a small brook that trickled out one end.
Since she had found no other exits, Midnight slowly walked along the brook’s edge. The magic-user constantly called Kelemvor’s name, always moving in the direction from which it took the echo the longest to return. In the complete darkness, it was difficult to guess time and distance. Still, Midnight soon realized the cave was immense.
Midnight continued to follow the water along its snaking course for what she guessed to be two hours. Occasionally, the corridor broadened into large rooms. From the echoes, it sounded as though dozens of alcoves and side passages opened off of these rooms. Although the magic-user took the time to call down these passages, she was careful not to wander away from the brook. It was the only reliable means of navigation she had. Besides, if Kelemvor had fallen through the whirlpool, she suspected the best chance of finding him lay in following the water.
Eventually, the brook entered a large room and formed another pond. Midnight carefully explored the shores of the pond, but could find no outlet. On one end of the pool, there was a gentle gurgling that suggested the water drained out through a submerged passage. The magic-user sat down in frustration.
For a long time, Midnight tried to puzzle out what might have happened to Kelemvor and what he might be doing as a result. The more she pondered the possibilities, the more it seemed that in the end, Kelemvor would go to Waterdeep. Assuming he had survived, which was the only thing the mage allowed herself to believe, the fighter knew two things that she thought would eventually force him to make that choice. First, the tablet had to be delivered to Waterdeep. Second, Midnight’s eventual destination was also the City of Splendors, and if they had a chance of meeting again, it would be there.
As the magic-user contemplated Kelemvor’s situation, a white silhouette floated into the cavern from a side passage. It was roughly the shape of a man, but appeared to be made entirely of light. It illuminated everything within twenty feet of it.
“Who are you?” Midnight called, both frightened by the form and curious about it.
The figure turned and approached to within ten feet of her, then stopped and looked her over without speaking. It had the features of a robust man: heavy beard, square jaw, and steady eyes, all formed with light. The body, also nothing more than white light, had the musculature of someone well acquainted with hard work—perhaps a blacksmith.
After studying her for a moment, the white silhouette turned away without speaking and started toward a corridor opposite the one from which it had entered.
“Wait!” Midnight called, rising. “I’m lost—help me.”
The white form paid her no more attention. The magic-user scrambled after it, struggling to stay within the small circle it illuminated. Within a few steps, the sandy shore gave way to pebbles, then the pebbles gave way to large rocks. Despite the treacherous footing, Midnight scurried along behind the white spectre, determined not to lose her light source or the mysterious silhouette.
It did not take Midnight long to notice that the apparition seemed to be following a passage running more or less in one direction. Several times, the tunnel opened into large rooms. In such chambers, Midnight feared she would lose the silhouette, for the caverns were littered with jagged boulders, sudden drops, and sloping floors. Once, she nearly stepped into a deep hole, and another time she had to leap across a crevice. Still, despite having to rush blindly through short expanses of cavern, Midnight managed to stay with the spectre.
After what must have been five hours of exhausting travel, the silhouette drifted into a vast area of darkness. The ceiling was about fifteen feet high, but Midnight could not see the far side of the chamber. As she scrambled after the spectre, the echoes of the rocks she dislodged seemed distant and subdued. The mage called out Kelemvor’s name, and the sound of her voice drifted away into darkness, giving her the impression that this chamber was immense.
Midnight continued into the room, following the glowing apparition. Five minutes later, they reached a smooth wall of quarried granite. An expert stone mason had fitted the blocks so tightly that Midnight could not have slipped a dagger’s blade into the seams. The granite itself had been cut and polished so expertly that even the finest thief would slip trying to gain a handhold on it.
The wall ran in both directions as far as the silhouette illuminated, and rose fifteen feet to butt against the ceiling. Her pulse quickening with excitement, Midnight followed the spectre along the wall, running her hand down the slick cold stones.
Finally, they intersected a stone-paved street that entered the wall. Unlike the wall itself, the road showed signs of its incredible age. Some of its cobblestones had cracked or sunk into the ground, while others had become dislodged and lay scattered about.
The street ran beneath the wall in an arched tunnel. A heavy bronze-plated portcullis sealed each end of the vault. To either side of the main arch, there were smaller vaults, just large enough for a man to stand up in. These tunnels were sealed by heavy, bronze-plated doors.
The door on the closest tunnel hung cockeyed and open, and the silhouette entered the vault without hesitation. Midnight slipped past the door and followed. Again, the workmanship in the room was flawless. Each stone was squarely cut and set into place without the tiniest gap, and the keystones had not slipped a fraction of an inch in what Midnight assumed must have been thousands of years.
At the other end of the tunnel, they reached another partially opened door, again plated in bronze. The spectre slipped past it and disappeared. Midnight quickly followed, pushing the door open. Its hinges creaked loudly from a lack of oil.
The street continued straight ahead, save that now curbstones and sidewalks lined it. On either side of the road, gray, square buildings rose to a height of two stories. Made of quarried stone, the buildings had a simple and clean architectural style. On the first floor, a rectangular door led into each dwelling, and on the second story, one or two square windows overlooked the street. Without exception, they were constructed with the finest workmanship, though Midnight did see a few signs of deterioration—loose stones and gaps in the seams between blocks.
But it was not the buildings that caught Midnight’s interest. The white spectres of a thousand men and women flitt
ed here and there, their glowing forms illuminating the city in pale, twinkling light. The streets buzzed with the eerie cackle of their conversations.
Upon seeing so many apparitions in one place, it occurred to Midnight that this was a gathering place for shades like the one she had followed into the city. An instant later, she concluded that the glowing white forms were the souls of the dead. Noting that the soul spectres were not paying her any attention, Midnight started down the street. Though frightened, she was determined not to let that fear get in her way. If this city was the Realm of the Dead, then the other Tablet of Fate was hidden somewhere nearby. She intended to get it and leave as quickly as possible. Then she would find Kelemvor.
Halfway down the first block, a soul spectre approached Midnight. He had the form of an elderly man, with wrinkles on his brow and confused, vacant spheres of light where his eyes should have been.
“Jessica?” the man asked, reaching out for Midnight’s hand. “Is that you? I didn’t want to leave until we were together.”
Midnight recoiled, anxiously avoiding his touch. “No. You’re looking for somebody else.”
“Are you sure?” the spectre asked, disappointed. “I can’t wait much longer.”
“I’m not Jessica,” Midnight answered firmly. Then, more gently, she added, “Don’t worry. I’m sure she’ll be along when her time comes. You can wait for her.”
“No, I can’t!” the spectre snapped. “I don’t have time—you’ll see!” With that, he turned and drifted away.
After the soul spectre left, Midnight continued down the street. Several times, shades approached her, demanding to know if she was a loved one or friend, though they seldom seemed as confused as the old man. Midnight was able to excuse herself with nothing more than polite denials, then continue on her way.
For the first two blocks, the road was lined with empty shops, often with living quarters located directly overhead. Midnight poked her head into the doors of four of the buildings as she went. Each time, a small party of spectres greeted her—twice with polite invitations to join them, once with disinterested rudeness, and once with a rather hostile demand to be left alone.
As Midnight progressed farther into the city, she grew increasingly impressed by the thoughtfulness and planning that had gone into building it. The streets all intersected at right angles, and the blocks were more or less uniform in size. But the dwellings themselves were not drab or uninteresting. The buildings had been designed with a stoic artistry. They had clean, square forms and symmetrical plans that lent themselves to function as well as beauty. Exterior walls were adorned with simple etched lines that echoed the rectangular designs of the structures. Doors were always placed in the center of the building, with an equal number of windows located in similar positions on either side of them. The simple architecture left Midnight with a relaxed, peaceful feeling.
The city’s third block was entirely taken by a single structure that rose all the way to the cavern’s roof. This building lacked both doors and windows, its only opening being a great arch located exactly in the middle of the block. Midnight went to this arch and entered the massive structure.
She emerged in a great open courtyard. On three sides, it was lined by three-story promenades. Behind the promenades, arched doorways led into spacious rooms. A massive building, supported by white columns of the finest marble, dominated the end of the courtyard to Midnight’s left. The altar in its entrance suggested it was a temple.
At the other end of the courtyard, dozens of spectres lounged on the edge of a marble fountain. In the center of the fountain, a magnificent spout of water shot high into the air and turned to mist. A strange harmony, at once unsettling and calming, radiated from the fountain, and Midnight found herself drawn toward its waters.
The spectres near the font seemed oblivious to her presence, so she approached and peered into its pool. The water was as still as ice and as black as Bhaal’s heart, but also as clear as glass. The magic-user felt as though she were looking into another world, where peace and tranquility reigned supreme.
Beneath the water lay a great plain of shimmering light. It sprawled in all directions as far as Midnight could see, and she felt as though she could see to the edge of the Realms. The plain was entirely featureless, save that millions of tiny figures milled about on it.
Gazing at the magnificent plain, a mood of serenity and destiny supplanted the mage’s sorrow concerning Adon’s loss and her anxiety about Kelemvor’s absence. She felt it would not be long before she and her old friends were reunited. Midnight did not know why she felt this way, but suspected it had something to do with the vast plain below.
A deep, rough voice interrupted the magic-user’s reverie. “I’m sorry to see you here.”
Midnight looked up and saw a spectre addressing her. The shade was familiar, and she could not help flinching. The voice belonged to Kae Deverell, but to her, the form would forever be Bhaal’s.
“Don’t be sorry,” Midnight said.
Deverell took a seat on the fountain next to her. “And your friends—I forget their names—how do they fare?”
“I don’t know about Kelemvor,” Midnight replied, “but Adon’s down here somewhere.”
“And the halfling?” Deverell asked. “What about Sneakabout?”
“He died in Yellow Snake Pass,” Midnight said. She did not elaborate. The memory of Cyric’s treachery pained her too much.
Deverell sighed. “I had hoped to hear better news.”
A spectre leaped through Deverell and dove into the fountain, then sank toward the plain in long, graceful spirals. The lord commander draped a hand into the water and watched the spectre descend with a mixture of envy and fear.
“Oblivion—how it draws us,” Deverell mused. He closed his eyes as though he were pulling a long draft from his mug back at High Horn. Though his hand did not disturb the water’s glassy surface, the dark liquid was draining away the pain and anguish that came with being dead. It was also draining away the Cormyrian’s memories of life.
At length, he withdrew his hand. The time for him to leap into the pool would come soon enough.
As soon as they died, the souls of the dead were drawn by Myrkul’s magic to one of the thousands of places like this, the Fountain of Nepenthe—a pool or well filled with the black Waters of Forgetfulness. In normal times, Myrkul’s attraction was so strong that a soul spectre would immediately leap into dark waters, then emerge on the plain on the other side.
With Myrkul barred from his home, however, his magic had been considerably weakened. Many soul spectres were finding the strength to resist his attraction—although only temporarily. All through the Realms, soul spectres were gathered outside long forgotten wells and pools and fountains, vainly attempting to resist the final call of death.
Deverell tore his thoughts away from the fountain and turned to Midnight. “Tell me, who has the tablets now? What will happen to Cormyr and the Realms?”
“Kelemvor has one of the tablets,” Midnight said, unaware that she was lying. “And the other is here somewhere.”
“Here?” Deverell asked, perplexed. “What would it be doing here?”
“It’s in Bone Castle,” Midnight explained. “Myrkul took it.”
“Then the Realms are doomed,” Deverell replied flatly.
“Unless I can get to the castle and recover the tablet,” Midnight said, dipping her fingers into the fountain’s glistening waters. Unlike Deverell, she caused expanding rings of ripples. The water both chilled and comforted her.
“Stop!” Deverell yelled, reaching for her arm. His fingers closed right through her bones, leaving the flesh cold and numb. “You’re alive!”
“Yes,” Midnight said reluctantly, unsure what to make of Deverell’s reaction.
“Pull your hand out of the water!”
Midnight obeyed, wondering if she had offended the soul spectre by touching the fountain.
This calmed Deverell. “You’re alive—and tha
t means there is hope,” he said, “but not if you let those waters drain your memory. Now what is this about Bone Castle?”
“That’s where the other tablet is,” Midnight explained. “I’ve got to get inside and recover it. Can you take me there?”
Deverell’s form grew even whiter, if that was possible. “No,” he muttered and turned away. “I’m not ready for the Fountain of Nepenthe. And even if I was, I’ve never been to the Realm of the Dead.”
“This isn’t it?” Midnight demanded.
“Not by an arrow’s long flight,” Deverell said, shaking his head. “We’re in Kanaglym, according to the others.”
“Kanaglym?”
“Built by the dwarves when the High Moor was fertile and warm.”
Midnight could not imagine a time when the High Moor was fertile, much less warm. “But there are no dwarves here now,” she observed, looking around the fountain.
“No,” Deverell agreed. “They never inhabited it, at least not for long. The town well ran dry within a year of Kanaglym’s completion. The dwarves sank a deeper well on the site of the old one. Eventually, they struck a limitless supply of water: the Waters of Forgetfulness.
“Within a month, they realized their mistake and renamed their beautiful well the Fountain of Nepenthe. A month after that, most of them abandoned Kanaglym completely. Those who were too stubborn to evacuate simply forgot where they lived and wandered off into the dark.”
“Then this isn’t Myrkul’s realm,” Midnight sighed. “Bhaal said there was an entrance to the Realm of the Dead below Dragonspear. I thought I had found it.”