Shadowdale

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Kelemvor worked long into the night to finish the cart for transporting Cyric. And though he was in pain, the fighter ignored the pain of his own wounds. They were not serious enough to keep him from his task, and he wanted to leave for Tilverton at first light. When he was certain that the modified wagon would perform satisfactorily, Kelemvor lay beside it and fell into a deep sleep.

Midnight sat with Cyric, keeping watch as Kelemvor and Adon slept.

"You stayed with me," Cyric said. "I didn't believe you would."

"Why do you think I'd abandon you?" Midnight asked with genuine concern.

A moment passed before Cyric spoke, as if he were attempting to gather his words and arrange them in just the right order. "You're the first person who hasn't abandoned me," he said. "In one way or another. It's what I expect."

"I can't believe that," Midnight said. "Your family — "

"I have none," Cyric said.

"None that are living?" Midnight asked gently.

"None at all," Cyric said with a degree of bitterness that surprised Midnight. "I was orphaned in Zhentil Keep as a baby. Slavers found me in the street, and a wealthy family from Sembia bought me and raised me as their own until I was ten. I heard them arguing one night, as parents often do. But the subject of this fight was not their dissatisfaction with one another, but their shame over me.

"One of our neighbors had learned the truth about me, and my 'parents' felt nothing but humiliation over their dark secret. I confronted them, threatened to leave if I was such an embarrassment." Cyric's eyes narrowed as his lips pulled back in a cruel, wicked smile. "They didn't stop me. It was a long journey back to Zhentil Keep. I almost died several times. But I learned."

Midnight brushed the hair from his brow. "I'm sorry. You don't have to go on."

"But I want to!" Cyric said savagely. "I learned that you do what you must to survive, even if it means taking from others. I arrived in that black pit known as Zhentil Keep, where I attempted to learn something of my past. But of course there were no answers to be found. I became a thief, and my actions soon gained me the attentions of the Thieves' Guild. Marek, the leader, took me in and taught me all the skills of the trade. I was a quick study.

"For a long time I did whatever Marek told me to do. I was anxious to please that black-hearted rogue. It took me many years to realize that it was taking more and more to get that treasured, tiny nod of approval from him.

"Then, when I was sixteen and Marek's attentions turned to a new recruit, who was the same age as I had been when he first took me from the streets, I realized that I had been used yet again and planned to leave. When my plans became known, the Guild put a price on my head. No one would help me as I attempted to escape Zhentil Keep. I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised; the people I had regarded as allies no longer had a use for me. I wouldn't have made it out of the city at all if it weren't for my talent with a blade. It was quite refined, even then. The streets ran red with blood the night I left."

Midnight lowered her head. "Then what happened?"

"I spent eight years on the road, using my skills to indulge the one passion I had cultivated since I had been a boy: travel. But wherever I would go, people were the same. Poverty and inequality were as widespread as luxury and splendor. I had hoped to find fellowship and equality; instead I found pettiness and exploitation. Somehow I thought I would escape the betrayals of my youth and find a place where honesty and decency prevailed, but no such place exists. Not in this life."

Midnight hung her head. "I'm sorry for your pain."

Cyric shrugged. "Life is pain. I've come to accept that. But don't pity me just because my vision is clearer than yours. Pity yourself. You'll wake to the truth soon enough."

"You're wrong. It's just that there's so much you haven't seen, Cyric. You've been cheated out of so many of the joys life has to offer."

"Really?" the thief said. "Love and laughter, you mean? A good woman, perhaps?" Cyric laughed. "Romance is a lie, too."

Midnight brushed the hair from her face. "And why do you say that?"

"I was twenty-four when I realized that my life had no direction, no real meaning. I returned to Zhentil Keep, and this time my efforts to find my roots met with some limited success. I was told that my mother had been young and madly in love with an officer in the Zhentilar. When she became pregnant, he cast her out, claiming the child was not his. She fell in with the poor and homeless, who cared for her until I was born. Then my father returned and murdered her and sold me for a healthy profit. Quite a fairy tale romance, wouldn't you say?"

Midnight said nothing as she sat, staring at the fire.

"I heard other versions of the story, but that's the one I believe to be true. It was a beggar woman who claimed to have befriended my mother who told me this tale, but she could not give me the name of the man who had sired me, nor could she tell me what had befallen him. A shame, really. I was looking forward to having a nice long talk with the man before I slit his throat.

"Eventually, Marek and the Guild offered to take me in again, but I refused. The refusal was not accepted, and I was forced to flee the city once more. When I was gone from Zhentil Keep, though, I felt as if I was leaving the past behind. I attempted to start over, and I adopted the life of a fighter. But my past always catches up to me and forces me to move on. With Mystra's reward I had hoped to travel far, perhaps across the desert. I don't really know where — just someplace where I could find some peace."

Midnight let out a deep breath.

Cyric laughed. "Now we know each others secrets, and you no longer have reason to be afraid."

"I don't know what you mean," Midnight said, attempting to hide her concern. "What secrets of mine do you know?"

"Only one, Ariel," Cyric said.

"You heard my true name — "

"I didn't try to find it out," he said. "If I could forget it, I would, although it is a beautiful name." Cyric swallowed hard. "No one alive knows all that I have told you. If you wished to ruin me, I couldn't stop you. Inform the Guild of my whereabouts and I'm a dead man."

Midnight caressed his face. "I wouldn't think of it," she said. "Secrets are always safe between friends."

Cyric tilted his head. "Is that what we are, friends?"

Midnight nodded.

"How interesting," Cyric said. "Friends."

Cyric and Midnight talked long into the night, and when it came Adon's turn to take the watch, Midnight didn't wake him.

By morning, after Kelemvor relieved Midnight of the watch and Cyric had a chance to sleep, the pain from the thief's wound had lessened enough for him to sit up. Cyric even had the strength to eat with the others, although there was nothing more than a few sweetbreads to be had.

After morningfeast, Cyric asked Midnight to bring his bow, and he instructed her on its proper use. Midnight took aim at a large bird that had hovered over the party since morningfeast began. Cyric's instincts combined with Midnight's great strength brought the black bird down, and they roasted its carcass after Adon retrieved the fallen creature.

After a night's rest, Adon's hearing returned to some degree. The first sign of progress came when the cleric no longer required a slight blow from Kelemvor's steel-plated elbow to realize that he was shouting in the fighter's ear instead of speaking at a normal level. And Adon's loss of hearing in no way stopped him from talking. Now, though, he strained to hear himself when he voiced his flowery opinions, as if he could not risk the utter damnation that would certainly follow if his important statements about the righteous path of Sune were not said with the proper timbre and volume.

After the adventurers finished off the roast bird, they packed their belongings and mounted the two remaining horses. Kelemvor was again subjected to Adon's company, and the cart the fighter had built was lashed to Midnight's mount.

The ride was surprisingly comfortable for the wounded thief, despite the sweaty, leathery embrace of the stretcher. Cyric met with only an occasional bump, until late morning, when one of the cart's wheels was shattered on a huge stone in the road and couldn't be repaired. Kelemvor was forced to cut the assembly free and toss it to the side of the road. Cyric rode with Midnight for the remainder of the journey.

A storm had been on the horizon when the heroes first spotted the gates of Tilverton, and the threat of bad weather had hung above their heads ever since. Steel-gray skies stood behind ominous black clouds. Tiny flashes of lightning were visible in the distance all morning, and the roar of far-off thunder drifted across the plains.

A few hours later, they reached the town of Tilverton and were promptly stopped by a group of men wearing white tunics with the insignia of the Purple Dragon. The men seemed tired but alert, and they were filthy. Six crossbows had been readied and aimed at the adventurers even before the leader of the Cormyrian patrol asked to see their charter. Kelemvor found the false charter Adon had bought back in Arabel and offered it to the captain. The patrol leader examined the charter, handed it back, and waived them on. They rode past the patrol, and entered the town without incident.

The adventurers rode into Tilverton tired and without humor. The hour of highsun was upon them, and their stomachs growled like beasts searching for release. Cyric was exhausted from the trip, and as the heroes stopped in front of an inn, the thief tried to get down from Midnight's horse. He got to the ground, but fell back into the red-maned beast with a grunt. His second attempt to walk was only slightly more successful, and he got two steps from the mount, but could go no further.

Midnight dismounted and threw one of the thief's arms around her neck. The magic-user was taller than the thin, dark-haired man, and she had to crouch slightly as she helped Cyric stumble into the inn. Kelemvor and Adon rode in behind Midnight. The cleric, whose hearing had returned to normal, immediately rushed to help Midnight, but the fighter dismounted and led both horses to the stables behind the gray stone inn.

The sign above the door identified the inn as the Flagon Held High. As Midnight and Adon struggled to reach the door handle, they noticed a young man with pale gray eyes sitting in the shadows beside the door.

"Your assistance if you would," Midnight said as she tried to get a better grip on the sagging thief.

The young man continued to stare directly ahead, ignoring the magic-user's request.

Now, a dirty brown rain started to fall on the city. Midnight struggled with the door, and with Adon's help, the mage dragged Cyric inside. Kicking the door of the inn shut behind her. Midnight helped Cyric to a wooden chair beside the door. At first she thought the inn was deserted, and then she saw a flickering light and heard voices in one of the dining rooms. She called out, but her requests for assistance went unanswered.

"Damn," she hissed. "Adon, you stay here with Cyric." Midnight went off in search of the innkeeper.

As she entered the common room, Midnight saw that it was crowded. Men were scattered throughout the room. Some appeared to be soldiers, bearing the coat of arms of the Purple Dragons. A few had been wounded, although their wounds had been bound. Others appeared to be only civilians. All seemed sullen and withdrawn.

"Where is the innkeep and his help?" Midnight asked the closest soldier.

"Off to pray, I suppose," the man said. "It's about that time."

"It's always about that time," another men said, nursing his drink.

"I don't understand," Midnight said. "No one is here to tend the inn?"

The soldier shrugged. "There may be a guest or two upstairs. I don't know." Midnight turned away, but the soldier continued to speak. "You can just take what you need. No one will care."

Midnight walked away from the common room, shaking her head. She returned to the foyer of the inn, where Adon was standing beside Cyric.

"Where's Kel?" she said. Adon shrugged and looked back to the door, holding his hands up in confusion.

Midnight cursed again and ran from the inn. She saw Kelemvor's back at the far end of the street, and she called to him. "Where are you going? You owe me!"

The fighter stopped and lowered his head. What I owe you is to get out of your life, Kelemvor thought. There are too many secrets between us, too many questions that you would not like the answers to.

But he chose not to tell Midnight any of this. Instead, the fighter barked, "The debt will be paid!" then continued on his way.

Midnight stood trembling for a moment, then she returned to the inn and sat beside Cyric.

"Perhaps he needs time," Adon said, slightly louder than he should have.

"He can have a lifetime," Midnight said, her harsh expression falling away as the door opened and she rose to her feet. A white-haired man who had seen more than fifty winters stood in the doorway, his expression cold as he looked to the travelers. He walked by them to a small antechamber and vanished, ignoring Midnight's attempts to get his attention. When he emerged from the room, stinking of some foul liquor, he was surprised that the travelers were still there.

"What do you want?" he asked at last.

"Food, lodgings, perhaps some information — "

The old man waved her away. "You can take the first two. No one will stop you. Information comes at a price."

Midnight wondered if the man was mad. "We have no coin to pay for our lodgings, but perhaps we can provide protection from those who seek to rob you of your valuable services — "

"Rob me!?" the man said, alarmed. "You misunderstand." He leaned in close, and the smell of the cheap liquor made Midnight recoil. "You can't rob what someone no longer cares to keep! Take what you like!"

The man returned to the antechamber. "I no longer care," he cried from the dark room.

Midnight looked to the others, then leaned against the wall, defeated. "Perhaps we should get our things," she said at last. "We may be here awhile."

They brought their gear to the first available room, then Adon took the keys which were hanging behind the counter in the small room where the innkeep lay drunk. The room the heroes took was quite pleasant and came with two beds. Adon settled his things on one bed and went about changing his clothes, indifferent to the magic-user's presence.

It was still raining outside and the room was dark, so Midnight lit a small lantern beside the bed. Adon checked on Cyric with a cursory examination, then set off to explore the city.

Midnight helped Cyric out of his clothes, laughing as the thief actually blushed. "Have no worry," Midnight said at one point, "I'm a complete amateur."

Cyric winced. "You're doing fine," he said as he pulled the covers back up to his chest.

"I'll sleep on the floor," Midnight said at last. "I prefer it for my back. You remember to keep covered and warm."

Cyric frowned. "I'm too old to be mothered. You should worry about yourself, not about me — "

Midnight held out her hand, motioning for him to stop. "We must make you well," she said softly. "You must be strong for your journey."

Cyric seemed confused. "What journey?"

"Your search for that better place," the mage said. "You don't have to accompany me any farther. The way between Tilverton and Shadowdale should be clear. I can make it there alone."

Cyric shook his head and tried to sit up. Midnight gently pushed him back on the bed. "There is no need," he said. "No need to go on alone."

"But, Cyric, I can't ask you to come with me. You need to rest, to heal — "

Cyric had already made up his mind. "There must be healing potions in this place. Medications, salves. Everything in town seems to be here for the taking. Find something to heal me, and I'll be by your side for as long as you need me."

"I wouldn't have left until you were well," she said.

"Your mission is urgent. You can't afford to wait."

"I know that," Midnight said. "But I would have stayed just the same. After all, you're my friend."

For the first time in a long time, Cyric smiled.

Kelemvor was alone on the streets. The storm was hanging directly overhead, and the drops of rain, now orange, fell on him as he searched for the smithy. Eventually, he found the blacksmith hard at work in the shelter of his shop, and he ducked inside as the rain started to fall harder.

The smith was a burly man with a build similar to Kelemvor's. He had curly black hair, and the flesh of his bare arms was bruised in places and seared black in others. The smith did not look up from his work as the fighter approached. The bright metal shoes he created for the nearby horse were almost ready, and he turned to test the pair he had set aside to cool.

"A moment of your time," Kelemvor said.

The blacksmith ignored the fighter, training his gaze on the job before him. Kelemvor cleared his throat noisily, but that, too, was ignored. However, Kelemvor was cold and tired and in no mood to be insulted.

The fighter peeled off the armor where the brigands' arrows had struck him. He threw the steel plates at the smith, knocking the red-hot tools from his hands. The man bent low to retrieve the instrument before the hay at his feel could catch fire, and he examined the armor plating. Then he looked up to see the ravaged flesh of the fighter's arm, where fragments of the brigands' arrows had lodged themselves.

"I can mend this," the smith said without emotion. "But I can do nothing for your wounds."

"Are there no healers in Tilverton?" Kelemvor asked. "I saw a large temple over the roofs of the shops down the street."

The man turned away. "The Temple of Gond."

"All right, I saw the Temple of Gond. There must be clerics who could — "

"Remove the rest of your armor so I can get to work," the smith interrupted. "Then you can go to the temple yourself. I only heal metals."

Kelemvor gave the smith his armor and put on some clothes he had taken from the party's supplies. The smith worked silently, ignoring the fighter's questions no matter if he screamed them or couched them in all the politeness he could muster. When he was done hammering out the damaged armor, the blacksmith refused to take any payment.

"It's my duty to Gond," the smith said as Kelemvor wandered back into the street.

Kelemvor found the Temple of Gond without difficulty, despite the rain. Occasionally he passed a commoner wandering the streets or lying on the walk outside a shop, but the people he met were indifferent to his presence, their eyes vacant, staring at something only they could see. He also found the greatest concentration of smith shops he had ever seen in one area, though they were generally deserted.

When Kelemvor finally reached the temple, he saw that it had an entrance constructed in the form of a great anvil. The building itself was made of stark, powerful shapes that rose up to dwarf the hovels and shops around it. There were fires burning within the temple, and an unending chorus of worship sounded from the doorway.

As he entered the Temple of Gond, the fighter was surprised by the vast expanse of the main chamber. If there were quarters for the high priests in the temple, they must surely have been underground, since every square foot of the ground floor had been devoted to the chamber.

In the chamber, worshipers crowded around a hooded high priest who stood atop a huge stone anvil. Giant stone hands were visible at either side of the altar; a gigantic hammer was poised in one of them. Fires had been lit in the four corners surrounding the hooded man.

The support pillars that rose up to the arched ceiling were carved in the form of swords, and the windows were framed with an interlocking series of hammers. It was hard to understand the exact words of the high priest, as the continuous shouting from the audience drowned out all but a few key phrases, but it was clear that the high priest was issuing an endless series of praises to his god and an equal number of condemnations to the commoners of Tilverton.

"The gods walk the Realms!" a man beside Kelemvor shouted. "Why has Lord Gond forsaken us?"

But the man's words were swallowed up in the endless flow of chants and screams. Kelemvor judged that nearly the entire population of the small town was crowded into the temple, though occasionally, a few worshipers would wander out.

"Wait!" the priest would cry as people tried to leave. "Lord Gond has not abandoned us. He has given me the gift of healing to keep the faithful well until he arrives!" Few seemed to be swayed by this, but some of the people were persuaded to stay.

Listening to the Tilvertonians, Kelemvor learned that they had devoted themselves exclusively to the worship of Gond, God of Blacksmiths and Artificers. When tales of the gods walking the Realms reached the city, the people began to prepare for the arrival of their deity. They stood at readiness, waiting for some sign, some communication.

They waited in vain. Gond had risen in Lantan and did not make any attempt to contact his devoted worshipers in Tilverton. When a small group from the town reached Lantan and requested an audience with the god, they were turned away. When they persisted, two of them were slain and the others forced to flee for their lives. When this story was related to the townsfolk, it broke their spirit. Now they spent almost every waking hour in the temple, attempting to contact their god, attempting to disprove what they already knew in their hearts.

Gond didn't care about Tilverton.

Kelemvor was about to leave the temple when he noticed the silver-haired man standing to the rear of the chamber. A short, dark-haired girl stood beside him, her attentions riveted on his beautiful, unearthly face. No one else seemed to notice the man, and he turned away from the girl without acknowledging her presence. She turned and ran behind him as he walked to the place where Kelemvor stood and looked into the eyes of the fighter, a slight grin playing over his face. The eyes of the silver-haired man were bluish gray, with tiny red flecks floating through them. His skin was pale, although fine silver hairs were growing on his face and arms.

"Brother," the man said simply, then walked away.

Kelemvor turned and tried to catch the man or the girl, but when the fighter got to the street, the silver-haired man was nowhere to be seen.

After standing for a moment in the purple and green hail that was now falling on Tilverton, the fighter returned to the temple. As Kelemvor again stood at the rear of the main chamber, a young woman, a priestess, caught his eye. The fires of belief had not dimmed in her eyes: they burned bright enough to set the night sky aflame. She was very beautiful and wore a white gown tied at the waist by a leather belt. Intricate patterns had been woven into the fabric of her gown, and steel plates covered her shoulders. The odd mixture of delicate silks and hard steel somehow lent even more power to her appearance.

The fighter pushed his way through the crowd and was soon talking to the priestess, whose name was Phylanna.

"I need a place to stay," Kelemvor said.

"You'll need more than that," the priestess said, "judging from your injuries. Are you a follower of Gond?"

Kelemvor shook his head.

"Then we have something to talk about as our healer tends to your wounds." Phylanna turned and beckoned for him to follow. "I sense you have suffered greatly these past few days." She did not wait for his reply.

Phylanna brought him to a small stairway, which led down to a cramped chamber. There they waited until the high priest, now finished with his tirade against the town's wavering faith, entered the room. Phylanna closed and locked the door as the priest entered.

"You must never tell anyone about what you are going to witness," Phylanna said as she helped Kelemvor lay back upon the room's single cot.

"I am Rull of Gond," the priest said, his voice harsh and cracking from his prolonged sermon. "Are you a worshiper of the Wonderbringer?"

Before Kelemvor could answer, Phylanna held her hand to the fighter's lips and said, "It does not matter if he worships Lord Gond in this time of trouble. He needs our help, and we must give it."

Rull frowned, but then nodded in agreement. The priest closed his eyes and took a large, red crystal from a chain around his neck. He waved it over the fighter.

"It is a miracle you find yourself walking and of clear mind. A lesser man might have died from the infections you carry," Rull said as he examined Kelemvor. The fighter looked at the crystal and noticed a strange, burning glow in its interior.

"Kelemvor is proud," Phylanna said. "He bears his injuries without complaint."

"Not entirely true," Kelemvor grunted as the high priest went to work.

Phylanna seemed concerned as Rull performed the ritual to heal the fighter, but the priest's skills as a healer became obvious as his deft fingers worked in the air and the black welts that surrounded the fighter's wounds were slowly flushed with blood. The priest was sweating, his voice raised in supplication to Gond. Phylanna cut anxious glances to the door, fearing others might blunder in and interrupt the priest's efforts.

The splinters left by the arrow points rose to the surface of Kelemvor's skin, and Phylanna assisted Rull in removing them with her bare hands. Kelemvor cursed himself as he winced at the pain.

Then it was over. Rull's body relaxed, almost as if he had been completely drained of energy, and Kelemvor slumped forward on the cot. The fighter's wounds were no longer tender, and he knew that his fever had lessened.

"Rull's belief is strong, and so he has been rewarded by the gods," Phylanna said. "Your belief must be strong, too, to survive that kind of wounding."

Kelemvor nodded. He saw that the light within the crystal had become a slight flicker.

"Foolish and stubborn, perhaps, but still very strong," Phylanna said.

Kelemvor laughed. "You're lucky I'm flat on my back, woman."

Phylanna smiled and looked away. "Perhaps."

Though both Phylanna and Rull asked Kelemvor about his business in Tilverton and his religious beliefs, he told them very little about himself. But when the fighter spoke of payment for the priest's efforts, Rull said nothing and departed.

"I meant no offense," Kelemvor said. "In most places it is customary — "

"Material concerns are the least of our worries," the priestess said. "Now about your lodgings…"

Kelemvor glanced around the tiny, windowless cell. "I have an aversion to closed-in spaces."

Phylanna smiled. "The Flagon Held High may have an open room."

Kelemvor swallowed. "I have… an aversion… to that particular inn."

Phylanna folded her arms across her chest. "Then you'll have to stay with me."

There was a loud crash and angry voices erupted from the stairway leading to the cell. Kelemvor sat up quickly and reached for his sword. Phylanna put her hand on his shoulder and shook her head.

"There is no need for that in the Wonderbringer's temple. Now, lay back and rest until I return."

"Wait!" Kelemvor called.

Phylanna turned.

"When Rull is finished, please ask him to return," the fighter said. "I would like to apologize."

"I will bring him at the end of his next sermon," she said.

"Alone," Kelemvor said. "I need to speak to him alone."

Phylanna seemed puzzled. "As you wish," she said and hurried from the small room.

Kelemvor rested in the cell for an hour, growing more uncomfortable in the small room as his condition got better. The crowd of commoners in the Temple of Gond were noisy, and the fighter entertained himself by listening to their cries, which mixed in with Hull's sermon.

"Tilverton will perish!" someone screamed.

"We should all go to Arabel or Eveningstar," another voice cried.

"Yes! Gond doesn't care about us, and Azoun will protect Cormyr before he protects us!"

Rull's voice rose over the shouting, and he launched into another tirade against the people who had fallen away from their worship of the Wonderbringer. "Tilverton will certainly be cursed if we give up hope! Lord Gond has left me with healing spell, hasn't he?" the priest cried, and Rull continued to yell over the crowd for a few minutes. Then the sermon was over, and Kelemvor heard footsteps upon the stairs again. He reached for his sword.

The fighter put his weapon down as Rull entered the room, obviously exhausted from his shouting matches with the people in the temple. "You wished to see me," the priest said as he slumped to the floor.

Without sitting up on the cot, Kelemvor turned toward the priest and sighed. "I am grateful for what you've done for me."

Rull smiled. "Phylanna was right. It really doesn't matter that you do not worship Gond. It is my responsibility as his cleric to use the spells he gives me to cure anyone who needs my help."

"And the good people of Tilverton really seem to need your help badly," Kelemvor added.

"Yes," Rull said. "They are losing faith in Lord Gond. I am the only one who can bring them back to his flock."

"If you fail?"

"Then the town will perish," the priest said. "But that won't happen. Eventually they will listen to me."

"Of course," Kelemvor said, "if the people of Tilverton knew that Gond had forsaken you, too, and your healing magic was taken only from the stone you carry, they would listen to you even less than they do now. They would all turn away from Lord Gond for good."

The high priest stood up. "The healing magic is mine. It is a gift from the Wonderbringer to show the good people of Tilverton that he still cares. I will — "

"You will do what I ask of you, Rull," Kelemvor growled. "Or I will expose you to the people of Tilverton. Even if I'm wrong, they'll believe me."

Rull hung his head. "What do you want of me?"

Kelemvor sat up on the cot. "I need you to help someone who is injured far worse than I was. I made a promise to keep him safe, and I have to uphold it."

"I don't suppose he worships the Wonderbringer by chance," Rull said. "But then, that really doesn't matter, does it?"

Kelemvor gave Rull a description of Cyric and sent him to the Flagon Held High. The priest was just leaving the temple when Phylanna returned to the cell. "I'm here to take you to your accommodations for the evening, brave warrior," she said, grasping Kelemvor's hand and leading him from the room.

Adon wandered the streets, trying to find someone to talk to. The heavy storms had abated, and the thought that perhaps he was unsafe on the streets at night, that he might fall victim to robbers or cutthroats, did not occur to him. Even after the cleric learned that there had been a number of bloody murders in the last week, he continued to roam Tilverton. He had important matters to attend to.

Beginning with the young man who had lain outside the inn, oblivious to the heavy rain and hail that had fallen, the reactions to the cleric's inquiries about the town's problems were uniformly apathetic. The eyes of the Tilvertonians had been closed to all but their own inner suffering.

The worship of the gods was meant to uplift the soul, Adon thought as he walked through the streets. And worship was a higher calling than any other the cleric could think of. Still, that same calling had been turned into a fountain of pain and bitterness from which the people of Tilverton had drunk freely, and it cost them all sense of joy and reason.

As Adon stalked the streets of Tilverton, talking to anyone he could find, the words that had been spoken in the darkened chambers of Castle Kilgrave returned to him.

Truth is beauty, beauty truth. Embrace me, and the answers to all your unspoken questions will be made clear.

There was beauty in truth, Adon knew, and he worshiped the Goddess of Beauty. So he spent the night desperately trying to return the light of truth to the eyes of the poor wretches he found. Just before dawn, a woman had looked up into his eyes, a faint glimmer sparking in her eyes as he spoke his sermon, and Adon's heart filled with hope.

"Good woman, the gods have not deserted us. Now more than ever they need our support, our worship, our love. It is in our hands to bring about the golden age of beauty and truth in which the gods will again grant us their favor. Now, in this dark time when our faith is put to the test, we must not falter. We must find solace in our belief and forge ahead with our lives. For in so doing we will pay a greater tribute to the gods than even the strongest prayer can achieve!

"Sune hasn't sought me out, but I haven't given up the hope of one day standing in her presence," the cleric told the woman. As Adon held her by the shoulders, he was tempted to shake her, just to see if it would help her to understand his words.

The old woman stared at the cleric, a wellspring of tears threatening to flood from her eyes. Adon was pleased that his words had touched the old woman, that she seemed to understand.

And then she spoke.

"It sounds as if you're trying to convince yourself," she said bitterly. "Go away. You're not wanted here." Then she turned from the young cleric and covered her face with her hands as she lay in the street, sobbing.

A single tear ran down Adon's cheek as he walked from the woman and lost himself in the darkness.

Kelemvor awoke and found Phylanna gone. The side of the bed where she had slept was now ice cold. He thought of her gentle kisses and the strength he had found in her embrace, but the thoughts soon became clouded as his mind returned to the same topic again and again.

Midnight.

Ariel.

His debt to her had been fulfilled, but he could not forget her.

Kelemvor knew that Rull would have visited Cyric by this time, and he hoped Cyric would be ready to ride from Tilverton with Midnight come morning, even though he would not be accompanying them.

There was a noise at the end of the corridor outside the bedroom. Kelemvor slipped his mail frock over his head, lifted his sword from its sheath, and rose from the perfumed bed of the priestess. She had brought him to her rooms on the top floor above her brother's shop, leading him up a winding back stairway. No words were passed between them; no words were necessary. Meetings like this had their own subtle language, and Kelemvor knew that in the morning he would leave Tilverton and not think of the woman again.

He was fairly certain she would view their night of passion in much the same way.

Kelemvor opened the bedroom door and drew back as he saw Phylanna standing al the end of the corridor. The huge window had been opened, and the moonlight bathed her naked form, lighting an aura around her as she spread wide her arms and allowed the billowing curtains to caress her as she danced in the cool night wind.

The fighter was about to close the door and return to bed when he heard the voice of a man from the hallway, singing in some strange tongue. Kelemvor stepped out in the hallway and stopped as he saw the silver-haired man from the temple standing near Phylanna.

The man who had called him "brother," then vanished.

Phylanna danced with a lilting, graceful quality. Her eyes were open, but she did not seem to see Kelemvor as he approached. The silver-haired man continued to sing to her, although his gaze was now fixed on the fighter. The silver-haired man's blue-gray eyes blazed despite the darkness that shrouded his features, his form a silhouette against the bright moonlight.

The man stopped singing as the fighter got close to Phylanna. "Take her," he said "I mean her no harm."

Phylanna collapsed in Kelemvor's arms, and he gently laid her down in the hallway.

"Who are you?" Kelemvor said.

"I am known by many names. Who would you like me to be?"

"It's a simple question," the fighter snapped.

"With no simple answers," the man sighed. "You may call me Torrence. It's as good a name as any."

"Why are you here?" Kelemvor gripped his sword tightly as he felt something dark and heavy churn within his gut.

"I wished to draw you out, that you might join in my banquet. Come. Look."

Kelemvor stood at the window and looked down to the street. The girl who had been at the silver-haired man's side in the temple lay in the alley below, her clothes shredded, although she did not appear to have been harmed.

Yet.

Torrence shuddered, and the fine white hairs that covered his flesh grew thick. His clothes fell away, gently floating to the ground, as his spine crackled and lengthened. His face became bestial, his jaws extending outward as he emitted a guttural moan of pleasure. His entire body changed. He bent his limbs back and forth, the bones creaking. Huge fangs lined his open snout. His fingers ended in razor-sharp claws.

"A jackalwere," Kelemvor gasped in astonishment.

Phylanna awoke. She looked up at Kelemvor, confused. She did not see the monster standing next to the window. Kelemvor looked back to Torrence.

"Come, my brother. I will share with you."

Kelemvor fought against the rising tide within his breast. Abruptly Phylanna saw the jackalwere and rushed to Kelemvor's side. "Gond help us!" she screamed.

"Yes, bring her closer," Torrence said. "We may feast on them both."

"Get away!" Kelemvor shouted as he slammed the priestess against the far wall and raised his sword. The look of fear in her eyes was almost more then he could bear. "Now!" he screamed as he felt the familiar agonies begin to play upon his soul.

He was saving Phylanna from the jackalwere, but he was receiving nothing for the heroic act.

"I have erred. You are not one of my kind. You are accursed." Torrence glanced at Phylanna, then returned his gaze to Kelemvor. "You cannot save her, cursed one. She will pay for your trickery with her life!"

Kelemvor slowly turned, his skin dark and crawling with black, twisting hairs. He dropped his sword and stripped off the mail frock. His arms were still caught above his head when his flesh exploded and the great beast he held within him leaped at the jackalwere, pushing it out the window. The silver-haired creature howled as the beasts met in midair and plummeted to the ground.

Dawn was breaking, and Adon was shocked from his introspection by the screams of the dying.

The cleric approached the source of the screeches with growing apprehension; the screams he heard were not the sounds a human would make. And as he drew closer, he saw that many townsfolk had been drawn by the noise, as if the sounds had pierced the veil of lethargy that hung over them, allowing awareness to sear across their minds. The commoners stood staring at a nightmare.

The watchers were at either end of the alley, and Adon could only glimpse an occasional blur of movement from the area beyond — a flash of glaring white; a huge black form darting forward, then retreating as it let out an inhuman roar. There were two figures locked in some obscene dance of death.

Adon pushed forward, past the onlookers. Neither of the combatants was human, although one stood on its crooked hind legs. Its face was that of a jackal, but there was human intelligence in the gray-blue eyes, which registered alarm at the crowd that had gathered and at the warm sunlight breaking from above. The creature was covered in soft, matted hair, and it bled profusely from the score of wounds that had been opened in its hide.

The other beast was all too familiar to Adon: the sleek, black, rippling body; the piercing green eyes; the savage, bloodied maw; and the manner in which it stalked its prey. They all served to remind Adon of the impossible scene he had witnessed not so long ago in the mountains beyond Gnoll Pass.

The creature was Kelemvor.

At the feet of the dueling horrors was the prize for which they fought: a dark-haired girl who lay unmoving, her clothes shredded. Adon saw that she was still breathing and her eyelids fluttered from time to time.

The panther rose up on its hind legs as it engaged the jackalwere. They fell away from one another, sliding on the slick reservoir of blood that covered the street beneath them. Blood splattered in the face of the sleeping girl.

Adon turned and addressed the people. "We must bring low the jackal and save the girl!"

But the people merely stared.

"One of you must have a weapon of some sort — anything!"

Adon cursed himself for having left his war hammer behind, and took a step toward the creatures. The animals suddenly stopped and stared at him. Then the panther that had been Kelemvor took a swipe at the jackal and the hostilities were renewed. Adon backed away, through the indifferent crowd that viewed the spectacle with mild interest, and bolted toward the street.

He shouted two names as he ran down the street toward the Flagon Held High.