Shadowdale

III

Midnight's head cleared quickly after she left the farm, and she got a ride into Arabel with a small caravan, which was a common sight on the road to the city, even in times of trouble. Still, none of the travelers she met could tell her anything new about the events of the past two weeks, though all had stories of magic gone mad or the unrest in nature. Once the caravan reached the city, Midnight went off in search of her own answers.

She spent the day wandering the streets of Arabel, attempting to verify Brehnan's tales of the gods and the odd state of magic in the Realms. Midnight knew that she could spend as much time as she wanted in the search for answers, as she still had the handsomely filled purse she had earned with the Company of the Lynx. If she was prudent, the gold would last her at least three months.

Early in her search, Midnight found The Lady's House, the Temple of Tymora, and paid her admission to look upon the face of the goddess. When her gaze met with Tymora's, some strange emotion stirred within Midnight, and she suddenly knew, beyond any doubt, that this woman was the goddess-made-flesh. There was a feeling of affinity between them, as if on some primal level they shared a great secret or truth, although Midnight had no idea what this might he. Yet the most disturbing part of the exchange was the look the goddess gave Midnight just before the magic-user took her leave.

A look of fear.

Midnight hurried from the temple and spent the rest of the day exploring the city. She did not find a temple to the goddess Mystra, and when she finally braved a local tavern, her inquiries as to the whereabouts of the Goddess of Magic were met with blank stares or shrugs. It seemed not all of the gods had made spectacular entrances on the night of Arrival, as Tymora certainly had. In fact, some gods had not yet appeared at all.

Eventually, Midnight's wanderings brought her to the Pride of Arabel Inn, just in time for eveningfeast. She stood on the doorstep and watched a gigantic black raven that circled like a vulture in the semi-darkness. Then she looked away from the creature and went inside. Taking a table near the back, Midnight ordered a tankard of her favorite beer and a hearty meal.

After a time, a small party of adventurers caught her attention, and although they were seated at the other end of the immense taproom, their conversation one of many in the rapidly filling inn, Midnight found her eyes drawn to the burly fighter and his companions again and again. Finally, she left her table and moved to the far end of the bar, where she could hear their words quite clearly.

"The walls live and breathe," Caitlan Moonsong said. "They say no walls truly have ears? These do!"

"And this is to encourage us?" Adon said.

Kelemvor leaned back, downed his ale, and let out a belch. Adon glared at him. The Pride of Arabel was an expensive inn, and one in which a certain decorum had to be maintained. Visiting noblemen sometimes stayed at the inn if rooms became scarce at the palace, and visiting traders and merchants of only the highest rank could afford the prices at the Pride.

For bringing down the Knightsbridge conspiracy, Kelemvor, Cyric, and Adon had a standing offer to visit the inn whenever they so desired, free of charge. Although they had indulged separately, this was the first time they had visited the inn together.

As the adventurers sat, listening to Caitlan's story, Adon noticed a pretty serving girl looking over and smiling at him.

The girl seemed familiar, but the cleric couldn't place her.

"It's not possible for a fortress to be alive," Cyric noted.

"This one is! The walls can close in on you. The corridors can shape themselves just out of your sight to put you in a maze in which you'll starve and die. The dust itself is enough to kill you — it has the power to solidify into daggers that can pierce your heart or a fierce warrior who never knows fatigue or exhaustion."

Ah, then how did you escape, little one? Cyric wondered, a smile playing across his shadowed features. He sat with his back to the wall, another hard-earned lesson from his days of thieving, and one quite reasonably applied now, considering the battle with Marek had occurred less than an hour earlier.

It was clear to Cyric that Caitlan wasn't telling them everything, and for that reason alone the thief maintained his silence and covered his advancing smile with a gloved hand.

"Tell me again why we should risk life and limb simply to help you and this mere girl who promises great riches yet wears nothing but rags?" Adon said to Kelemvor.

Cyric noticed that the cleric seemed anxious — so anxious, in fact, that he flinched every time the doors of the inn admitted a new customer. The cleric had been acting strangely ever since he arrived in answer to Kelemvor's summons, and he was now in a mood that made him unfit for human company. The effect was disconcerting.

"Expecting someone?" Cyric said to the nervous cleric. Adon simply grimaced.

"Certainly there's a risk," Kelemvor said finally. "But what else is life, if not a series of risks? I don't know if I speak for the two of you, but I cannot bear the thought of spending another day locked within these maddening walls."

"And my lady is trapped within that unholy place, a prisoner for all time unless you three can rescue her!" Caitlan had become increasingly pale as she spoke, and beads of sweat had appeared on her forehead.

Adon looked away and saw that the serving girl who had smiled at him was drawing closer. She was petite, with flaming red hair that reminded him of Sune herself. She carried a tray filled with drinks and stopped at the table nearby.

Suddenly he remembered their conversation from two nights before, when he met her as a fellow patron at the High Moon Inn. Adon liked the company at that inn, and the girl's wages were too low for her to think of indulging herself in the fineries of the Pride of Arabel.

"Adon," she said, taking in his full measure.

He could not remember her name. "My dear."

A moment later Adon was on the floor, the impact of the serving tray still ringing in his ears. "Fine advice you gave me, you lout! Demand equal pay! Fair treatment as a person and not merely a serving wench to be ogled at and fondled by the rich drunkards in their fancy clothes who pass through these doors!"

Adon attempted to shake some sense into his rattled brain and failed. Yes, the words certainly sounded like his…

"The conversation was not a success?" the cleric said quietly.

The serving girl trembled with rage. "I lost my place in line to become the next fine lady of the inn, wife to the innkeeper. A life of luxury thrown away because of you!"

She threw down the tray and Adon was careful this time to avoid it. The serving girl stormed off and Adon regarded his companions.

"How soon can we leave?" Adon said, then accepted Cyric's helping hand.

"Well met," Cyric said, his smile hidden no longer.

"We must take into account more than our haste to take flight and our desire for adventure," Kelemvor said. "Even though magic is untrustworthy, we should bring a mage along on this journey."

Cyric frowned. "Yes, I suppose you're right. But who?"

After a moment, Adon said, "What about Lord Aldophus? He is a sage of great repute, and firm friends with King Azoun."

"'Curious happenstances abound — and all burning Hell breaks loose,'" Cyric said quietly, repeating the phrase Aldophus coined, a phrase whose meaning had taken on a new, somewhat darker significance than the sage had intended when first he uttered those words.

"Aldophus is a dabbler in the physical sciences." All heads turned to stare at the dark-haired woman who stood before the adventurers. "I doubt heartily the practice of divining the qualities of base metals and simple dirt will be of much help where the lot of you intend to tread."

Kelemvor sneered. "I suppose you could do better?"

The woman raised an eyebrow and Kelemvor studied her face. Her eyes were a deep and fathomless black, with flecks of scarlet that danced within. Her skin was deeply tanned, and he guessed she was from the South. Her lips were full and as red as blood, and a cool smile had etched itself upon her intriguing face, which was itself framed by long black hair that had been braided.

She was tall for a woman, slightly taller than Kelemvor, and she wore a cloak that allowed only a glimpse at a beautiful blue-white star pendant she wore beneath. Her clothing was a deep violet in color, and two large books, bound together by a leather strap, had been slung over her shoulder.

This is man's business, Kelemvor thought, and she's interfering. He started to tell her that, but cried out as his tankard split apart and a dragon made of bluish white fire with a wingspan the size of a man suddenly leaped into existence with a roar that seized the attention of all the inn's guests. The dragon opened its jaws and revealed its fangs, which appeared as sharp as daggers. Then the creature reared up and rushed forward with the sole intent, Kelemvor was certain, of snapping off his head, thus ending the bloodline of the Lyonsbanes.

The swiftness and fury of the monster prevented Kelemvor from drawing his sword in time, and the dragon could easily have killed the fighter in an instant. But, suddenly, the creature stopped, let out an unearthly belch, and vanished completely.

Kelemvor's seat was in pieces on the floor beneath him, and he sat, legs spread, sword before him, heart racing, eyes darting back and forth, when the woman grinned and let out a yawn. Kelemvor looked up sharply.

"Do better?" she said, repeating the fighter's snide comment. "I suppose I could at that." Then she pulled up a chair. "I am Midnight of Deepingdale."

Swords found their sheaths, axes their proper places, bolts were removed from crossbows, and a general calm fell over the inn.

"A mere illusion! We need a magic-user, not an illusionist!" But Kelemvor's throaty laugh was cut short by the sight of the table where the fire dragon had appeared: the heavy oak had been scorched.

Such control of magic was startling, especially from a woman, Kelemvor thought. Perhaps it was an accident.

Kelemvor used his sword for leverage and rose to his feet. Before the thought to return his sword to its sheath occurred to him, an all too familiar voice rang out.

"Nay! My eyes must deceive me! Surely it is not Kelemvor the Mighty come to grace this poor inn with his magnificent presence!"

Kelemvor rose, sword at the fore, and looked for the laughing face of the mercenary, Thurbrand. And Kelemvor saw that he was not alone. Two square tables had been pushed together to accommodate Thurbrand's party, which consisted of seven men and three women, none of whom would ever be confused with a regular patron of the Pride of Arabel without a heady amount of imagination. The men had the look of combat veterans, despite their apparent youth. One man, an albino, reached for his dagger. Thurbrand gestured for the albino to remain at ease. A beautiful woman with short, blond hair sat beside Thurbrand, riveted to the mercenary's every word and gesture. A girl with short, brown hair sat at the other end of the table, keeping to herself, eyeing Kelemvor suspiciously.

Kelemvor stared into the all too familiar emerald eyes of Thurbrand and found them as deceptive and hypnotizing as they always had been to him. Kelemvor grimaced.

"And here I thought the dogs were kept to the kennel," Kelemvor spat out. "The keeper must surely be chastised!"

Thurbrand shook his head and smiled as he regarded his companions. The look he gave them made it clear they were not to interfere, no matter what might occur. "Kelemvor!" he said, as if uttering the name was a trial in itself. "Surely the gods could not be so cruel!"

Kelemvor glared at the onlookers from the other tables and one by one they averted their unwelcome stares. "You're getting old," Kelemvor said, his volume greatly reduced.

Thurbrand was just past thirty summers, scarcely older than Kelemvor himself, and yet the ravishes of age had truly begun to prey upon the fighter. Thurbrand's hair, golden and fine, had gone to thinning, and was worn unusually long in an effort to cover huge patches of bald scalp. Thurbrand was obviously self-conscious about this, and he constantly patted his hair and cajoled it with fingers to keep it in place over the bald spots.

Lines had formed on Thurbrand's forehead and around his eyes since Kelemvor had seen him last, and the manner in which he held himself, even when seated, suggested the slouch of a fatted businessman, not the conditioned posture of the finely honed warrior Kelemvor had shared a few wild adventures with in years past, before a disagreement — the subject of which was long forgotten by either man — had caused them to part ways. Still, Thurbrand's face was red from too much sun, and his arms were as well-defined and powerful as Kelemvor's.

"Old? Thurbrand of the Stonelands, old? Gaze into your own mirror once in a while, you lumbering wreck. And has no one told you that civilized men do not draw weapons unless they have a use for them?"

"I pity the man who mistakes either of us for civilized," Kelemvor said, and sheathed his sword.

"Kel." Thurbrand said. "You'll shatter the frail bonds of my ruse. I'm a regular guest in this establishment. A respected agent of arms and experienced talent to wield them. Speaking of that, I may have a little job that you — "

"Enough!" Kelemvor said.

Thurbrand shook his head in a mockery of despair. "Ah, well. At least you know where to find me."

"I wouldn't know that unless I had eyes in the back of my head," Kelemvor said, and turned his back on Thurbrand.

Kelemvor found a new chair waiting, and spied a serving boy darting into the kitchen with the pieces of the shattered chair tucked beneath his arms. Midnight sat confidently between Cyric and Adon. Caitlan sat in silence, her gaze riveted to the magic-user's pendant, which now rested outside Midnight's cloak. The girl looked as if she might faint. Her skin was while and her hands were trembling.

"We were discussing the proper route, and the proper share of the booty for someone of my expertise," Midnight said confidently, and Kelemvor felt every hair on his body prickle. "My suggestion is — "

"Get up," Kelemvor said simply.

"You need me," Midnight said incredulously as she reluctantly complied.

"Aye," Kelemvor said. "Just as I need my throat cut in my sleep. Begone!"

Suddenly Caitlan stood up, her mouth moving as if she were about to cry out. She clutched at her throat and fell across the table.

Kelemvor looked down at the girl with panic in his eyes. "My reward," he whispered. When he looked up, he realized the others were waiting for him to tell them what to do. "Adon!" Kelemvor said harshly. "Don't just stand there. You're a cleric. See what ails the child and heal her!"

Adon shook his head and held his hands open at his sides. "I cannot. With the gods in the Realms, our spells do not function unless we're near them. Surely you know this."

Kelemvor swore with disgust when he saw that Caitlan was shivering, despite the warmth of the room. "Then get a blanket or something to keep her warm."

Midnight moved forward. "My cloak," she said, and reached for the clasp by her throat.

Kelemvor looked up sharply. "You are not a part of this."

A serving girl appeared with a spare tablecloth. "I overheard," she said as she helped Kelemvor wrap the girl in the tablecloth, then backed away as the fighter hefted the unconscious girl in his arms.

Kelemvor looked into the faces of his companions. "Go with the magic-user or come with me," he said simply. Adon and Cyric looked at one another, then at Kelemvor. They didn't even look at Midnight.

"As you wish," the magic-user said coldly. Kelemvor and his companions filed past her, and she watched as Adon held open the door for the others, then made his own exit.

Midnight turned, almost colliding with a serving girl whose slight form was capped with an uneasy smile. The girl played nervously with her apron. "Say your peace," Midnight snapped.

"Your bill, milady."

Midnight looked over to her original table, where the meal she had ordered had long since became cold. It hardly mattered. She had lost her appetite. Midnight followed the girl to the bar and paid the innkeeper.

"Are there any rooms available?" Midnight said.

The innkeeper handed Midnight her change. "No, milady. We are full up. Perhaps the Scarlet Spear? It is nearby…"

Midnight took the directions from the man and gave him a gold piece for his trouble. Before the man could even put words to his surprise at such an extravagant tip, Midnight was already halfway to the door.

As Midnight passed through the doors of the inn and greeted the biting chill of the thin night air, a dark figure rose up from a purposefully neglected table. There was little, it seemed, a fistful of gold could not purchase in Arabel — the right to sit undisturbed in a poorly lit corner of an inn the very least of what was available. The blackened pits of the stranger's eyes seemed aflame with images of the adventurers. He grinned from ear to ear, then merged with the shadows and was gone before anyone was aware he had ever arrived.

Caitlan was slung over Kelemvor's horse as he rode through the night, Cyric and Adon riding close behind. Soon, they arrived at the Hungry Man Inn, and Cyric helped Kelemvor as he lowered the girl to Adon's waiting arms. The fighter leaped from his mount and ran for the door to the inn without bothering to tether his horse.

"Should we follow?" Adon said.

"Give him a moment," Cyric said, and soon Kelemvor emerged from the inn, barking orders to take the girl around back.

They were met at the rear entrance by an old woman who carried a lantern and gestured frantically for them to get inside. Kelemvor seemed subdued in the woman's presence.

"Zehla, this is Cyric, a fellow guardsman, and Adon of Sune," Kelemvor said.

The old woman shook her head. "Time enough for pleasantries later. Follow me."

Moments later they stood by Zehla's side, in a room she had always reserved for emergencies, watching the fever-plagued motions of Caitlan Moonsong. As beads of sweat formed on the girl's brow, Zehla wiped her forehead with a wet towel.

"She's ill, possibly dying, Kel," Zehla said, her wizened features and the lines of her face speaking volumes on her authority on pain and suffering.

Kelemvor realized Caitlan had become conscious: she was trying to say something. He bent low that he might hear her words.

"Save her." The girl's voice was weak and ragged. "Save my mistress."

"Rest," Kelemvor said simply, brushing the girl's hair from her eyes. Then Caitlan suddenly grabbed his massive hand with an iron grip that made the fighter flinch.

"She can cure you," Caitlan said, then her muscles relaxed as she sank back on the bed.

"Zehla!" Kelemvor cried, but the old woman was already there. Kelemvor looked to the others. If they heard the girl's promise, they gave no sign. His secret was safe.

"She's alive," Zehla pronounced. "For now."

The old woman turned to Cyric and Adon, and asked them to leave the room so that she and Kelemvor might speak privately. Both men looked to Kelemvor for confirmation, but he was staring down at the girl, lost in his own concerns. They left without further prompting, and Zehla closed the door behind them.

"My reward," Kelemvor said, gesturing at the girl. "If she dies, I will be cheated of my reward."

Zehla moved toward him. "Is that your only concern?"

Kelemvor looked away from the girl and turned his back on the old woman.

"Riches can be counted in more than gold, good Kel. There are people who help others simply for the pleasure it gives them to do so, and the knowledge that they have made a difference in the world. Hired arms are cheap and plentiful in comparison. You would do well to think on this."

"You think I don't know that? I think of that every day! But, remember, I'm no wide-eyed youth, no child for you to lecture. I have no choice but to follow the path that's been laid out for me."

Zehla went to him, touching his arm. "But why, Kel? Can you not tell me why?"

Kelemvor's shoulders fell as the anger that had raced through him evaporated. "I cannot."

Zehla shook her head and walked past the fighter. She then moved a chair out of the way, and pulled at a floorboard that came away in her hands without effort, revealing a small box that had been hidden in the tiny space. Zehla pulled out the box, then used the bed as support as she dragged herself to her feet.

"Help me," Zehla said as she set the box beside Caitlan. Kelemvor hesitated. Zehla's features turned cold. "Come, we must protect your investment."

Kelemvor moved forward, watching as Zehla opened the box and a series of multi-colored flasks were exposed. "Healing potions," Kelemvor said.

"Of course. That's why you came here, instead of taking her to one of the temples, isn't it?"

"Aye," Kelemvor said. "Clerical magic can't be trusted. I told Adon to cure her earlier, without thinking, as if it were still the time before Arrival. Of course, he couldn't. I feared the worshipers of Tymora would turn her away, as she was not one of their own, or force us to bring her back in the morning. By then she might have died."

"Having her drink this might be just as deadly as not treating her at all," Zehla said as she held up a vial. "All magic is unstable."

Kelemvor sighed and looked down at Caitlan, who was still shivering. "But we really have no choice, do we?"

Zehla took the lid off the flask and raised the girl's head. Kelemvor assisted her and they coaxed the unconscious girl to drink.

"So you came to me for my healing potions."

"I knew that if you didn't have the potions, you'd know where to get them," Kelemvor said. "The black market, if necessary. These items go at a premium." The flask was empty and Kelemvor allowed Caitlan's head to sink into the soft pillows. "Now what?"

"Now we wait," Zehla said. "Unless we've poisoned her, it will probably be morning before we see any results."

"If the potion works, will she be fit to ride with us?" Kelemvor said anxiously.

"She will live," Zehla said. "We will see about the rest."

Kelemvor reached for his gold, but Zehla stayed his hand.

"Unlike you, Kel, I need no reward other than the knowledge I have saved a life." Zehla motioned to the opened box. A half dozen flasks lay untouched. "Put those away," she said, and left the room.

Kelemvor stood for long moments, staring at the girl and the flasks, Zehla's words weighing heavily upon him. When the fighter finally emerged from Caitlan's room, he found Cyric and Adon waiting for him.

Zehla had already informed them of Caitlan's improving condition, and they wished to discuss their next move. Kelemvor, however, was in no mood for discussion. He left the inn, his comrades in tow, and waited until they had taken to their mounts and were well away from the inn before he let loose a string of orders that surprised Cyric and quelled some of the former thief's earlier doubts about Kelemvor's abilities.

"The boy you mentioned earlier, Cyric. The one you saw at the inn, with the girl: the one whose father is a guardsman. Pay the boy a visit and convince him to serve as a distraction at highsun tomorrow, when his father is guarding the north gate. If he objects, threaten to expose his liaisons with the girl. And tell him to maintain his silence after we're gone, as you have friends in the city who will expose him in your absence. Do this under the cover of night, then get some rest and gather your belongings. We will meet at the Hungry Man at first light.

"Adon, I want you to visit a man named Gelzunduth. I'll give you directions. Cyric and I will need false identifications that will hold up under scrutiny. That fat old buzzard is a master at creating bogus documents. We will also need a false charter." Kelemvor threw a bag of gold pieces to Adon. "That should more than cover your expenses. With your innocent face, you should have no problem convincing that pig to go along. If he refuses, come to my room at the Hungry Man. If I'm not there, wait for me, and I'll go back there with you. I've a debt to settle with that man, anyway."

Adon seemed confused. "Neither of you stay at the barracks, with the other guards?"

Kelemvor looked to Cyric.

"Part of our reward for bringing down the traitor," Cyric said. "The independence was welcome."

Adon frowned. "False documents? That's hardly legal."

Kelemvor pulled up the reigns and brought his mount to an abrupt halt. He glared at Adon. "You can't heal. You can't throw spells. You're adequate in a fight. Buying false documents shouldn't be too much to ask, all things considered."

Adon hung his head and took the directions Kelemvor offered, then rode off toward Gelzunduth's house.

"What will you do?" Cyric asked.

Kelemvor almost laughed. "Try to find a competent magic-user who's not a woman."

The Fighter rode off into the night, leaving Cyric to pursue his own task, and ponder his own questions.

The streets of Arabel were deserted, and Midnight wondered briefly if a curfew had been in effect. She had wandered from the course the serving girl at the Pride of Arabel had laid out for her, and soon found herself lost. Midnight knew that this was for the better, as it gave her time to calm down before she found herself in the company of others at the Scarlet Spear.

Midnight touched the pendant — Mystra's trust — as she thought of the blue flame dragon that had materialized at the Pride of Arabel. She had tried to throw a simple spell of levitation to impress Kelemvor, but somehow the spell had been altered. And though Midnight had remained visibly calm, and claimed credit for the dragon as if it was what she had intended to create, she had been terrified.

The magic-user touched the pendant once more. Perhaps it had something to do with the dragon. Then again, perhaps it was only the unstable nature of magic that caused the dragon to appear.

Unable to decide the real source of the misfired spell, Midnight turned her attention to finding the Scarlet Spear.

Then, in the street ahead of her, Midnight saw a horse, and a man called out to her. It was Thurbrand, the mercenary who had challenged Kelemvor at the inn.

"Fair daffodil!"

"I am known as Midnight," she said as the man approached. There was no one else on the street. The name he called her brought a slight tinge of amusement to Midnight, despite the cries of her better nature to beware the smiling man before her.

"I am no one's 'fair daffodil.'"

"Then there is no justice in this world," Thurbrand said, his green eyes picking up the light from the brilliant moon overhead.

"What do you want, Dragon Eyes?"

"Ah, I see Kelemvor's tender mercies have not left you unscarred," Thurbrand said softly. "He has that effect on many who wish to embrace his friendship. He has suffered much, Lady Midnight, and he inflicts that suffering on all those around him."

"Just 'Midnight,'" the magic-user said as she felt a sudden chill and pulled her cloak tight about her shoulders.

Thurbrand smiled and brushed a strand of hair that had revealed a bare spot back in place. "Come, I offer a place to rest for the night, and company who will appreciate one as lovely and capable as yourself."

Thurbrand turned and walked in the direction of his horse. "Perhaps we can discuss business as well."

Either Midnight's eyes deceived her, or the horse Thurbrand walked toward was adorned with a blood-red mane; a horse that was the very image of the one she had been separated from outside the city of Arabel. Heart racing, Midnight watched as Thurbrand stopped and looked over his shoulder. Midnight sauntered to his side, smiling as a plan began to form in her mind. Perhaps Thurbrand would be able to assist Midnight in proving to that overbearing fool Kelemvor that she was not a woman to he trifled with, although Thurbrand himself would not have cared for the direction her thoughts had taken.

"More specifically, the business that scoundrel Kelemvor did not have the sense to employ you for. There is much I would like to know."

Midnight frowned and cast a forget spell upon Thurbrand. There was a soft, blue-white flash at the base of his skull and Thurbrand cocked his head in annoyance, swatting at the back of his neck. "Damn bugs," he said sharply. "Now, what were we talking about?"

"I don't remember."

"Strange," Thurbrand said as he mounted the ebony stallion, then looked to Midnight who held out her hand. Midnight leaped, sinking her boot into the fighter's hand, almost dragging him off the mount as she settled comfortably on it herself.

"Strange?" she said.

"I can't seem to remember either." Thurbrand shrugged. "I suppose it was of no matter."

"Aye," Midnight said, and she gave the mount a gentle kick. Then she held on tightly as the riders suddenly found themselves in motion, racing through the night. "I suppose you're right. Lovely mount you've got."

"Purchased him just last week. Somewhat unruly, but fearless in battle."

Midnight grinned and patted the flank of the horse. "Takes after his master, I would guess."

Thurbrand laughed and rested his gloved hand on Midnight's bare knee, then removed it as the horse shot forward, forcing him to hold the horse's reins or risk falling.

Midnight wondered if she knew a spell to make the man keep his paws to himself, and his head on his own pillow in the dead of night. In truth, it didn't matter. If Midnight chose not to entertain company this evening and if her magic failed her, she still had her knife.

A knife always worked.

Midnight smiled to herself and relaxed slightly. Kelemvor wouldn't turn her away after he saw what she was going to do to Thurbrand.

Kelemvor returned from his fruitless quest angry and tired. He found Adon mysteriously bunked out on the floor, and roused the man long enough to find that all had gone according to plan: Gelzunduth had provided the false documents. Once Kelemvor had the papers, Adon crawled back to his bed of crumpled blankets on the floor and immediately fell asleep.

The fighter wanted to know how the mission had gone and, more importantly, why Adon was not spending the night in the temple, but he was relieved Adon hadn't volunteered an explanation. A vivid memory of an evening spent on watch, listening to the cleric endlessly praise his goddess, and himself for that matter, was enough to keep Kelemvor from asking for an explanation of even the simplest matter: Adon would invariably turn the conversation into a chance to praise Sune.

Hours later, when Kelemvor was sound asleep, Adon woke from his dreamless slumber and found he could not return to sleep. The cleric had feared he would find an armed guard waiting to escort him back to the dungeon at his humble quarters in the Temple of Sune, and so he had avoided the temple completely that night. Adon was grateful to Kelemvor for his generosity in letting him stay the night, but he had learned it was unwise to voice such sentiments to the man. He would find some other way to give thanks.

Of course, Adon knew that he was being overcautious. After all, Myrmeen had given him until highsun the following day to leave Arabel. But if her mood had changed, he might have found himself on the receiving end of an assassin's sword. His experience with the serving wench at the Pride of Arabel had made him wary.

So Adon dressed in the semi-darkness, attempting to ignore the condition of the room. The cleric's quarters had always been meticulously kept; Kelemvor's room looked as if some minor disaster had swept through the place, leaving weapons, maps, dirty clothing, and bits of half-eaten dinners laying everywhere. Judging from the look of the room, Kelemvor did not allow the cleaners access under any circumstances.

Realizing he should at least try to retrieve his belongings, Adon left the inn, and nervously traveled the back streets to the Temple of Sune. Once he reached the temple, he saw no signs of any guard, so he entered and charged a fellow Sunite with the task of retrieving certain belongings from his adobe. The Sunite rumbled some less than good-natured threats, mostly concerned with battering Adon's thick skull with his flail for having disturbed his slumber. However, once his fellow cleric understood that Adon was to be taking permanent leave, he acquiesced with enthusiasm.

When the Sunite returned from the adobe, Adon checked to be sure he had packed his war hammer, as he would likely need it from the girl's description of the castle. Then Adon returned to the Hungry Man Inn, cleared a small section of the floor for his belongings, and fell into a deep sleep.

Come first light of morning, Cyric woke the slumbering pair with news that his mission had also proceeded smoothly. Kelemvor immediately dressed and went to check on Caitlan's condition. He was pleasantly surprised to find her sitting up, attacking the breakfast that Zehla had only just brought.

"Kelemvor!" Caitlan cried when she saw the fighter. "When do we leave?"

Zehla gave Kelemvor a warning glance.

"As soon as you are able. And — "

"Is Midnight with you? I have such questions for her," Caitlan said. "She's a wonder, don't you think? So beautiful and intelligent and talented — "

"She won't be coming with us," Kelemvor said, noting the distressing effect his words had on Caitlan. The girl turned pale before his eyes.

"She has to come with us," Caitlan said.

"There are other magic-users — "

"It's my quest," Caitlan said, her true age showing for the first time. "You take Midnight or you don't go at all!"

Kelemvor rubbed his forehead. "You don't understand. Zehla, explain to her that a woman is not appropriate for a mission of this type."

Zehla rose from the bed and crossed her arms. "And a child is?"

Kelemvor realized he had been defeated, and gave in with a sigh. His quest for a magic-user the previous evening had been futile. The few mages who had shown any interest in the adventure were enthusiastic, but quite incompetent. One mage even burned himself out of house and home in an attempt to prove his worth.

"I suppose I could try to find her," Kelemvor said. "But Arabel is a large city. It may take more time than we have."

Caitlan looked away. "Then we'll wait."

"What about your lady?" Kelemvor said suspiciously, and again his words produced distressing effects.

"We'll wait just a little while," Caitlan said softly.

Zehla ushered Kelemvor out of the small room and joined him in the hallway. "I noticed the healing potions were untouched," Zehla said.

"I'm many things," Kelemvor said. "But I'm not a thief. Do you have any idea what caused her condition?"

"Exposure, exhaustion… her system was weak, and susceptible to any illness. It seems she'd been wandering the city for quite some time, trying to choose her champion."

Adon and Cyric had entered the hallway in time to hear this, and immediately joined the discussion.

"That's flattering," Adon said brightly. "She must have seen something special in you, Kelemvor."

"Actually, she'd become desperate. Kelemvor was simply the first likely candidate to speak to her," Zehla said. "She's a talkative little thing, once you get her going."

Kelemvor flinched slightly. What else had the girl mentioned to Zehla? Had she revealed his secret?

"We have work to do," Kelemvor said, and motioned for Cyric and Adon to follow.

Escaping unnoticed from the city would be a difficult matter. Both Kelemvor and Cyric would be expected on duty shortly after eveningfeast. Cyric may have had stealth enough to make it past anxious guards or over unclimbable walls, but the squarely built fighter with a child, a foppish cleric, and a magic-user in tow surely could not.

"Cyric, go buy clothing and whatever else you think we could use to disguise ourselves. Adon, try to find Midnight. We're going to… have to settle for her. I'll be here, finishing the packing and working on a plan," Kel said as soon as the three adventurers got outside.

An hour later, when Kelemvor emerged from his room, he almost collided with two of Zehla's men carrying armfuls of food. Outside, he found Cyric and Adon packing the supplies with a surprising lightness of step.

Adon grinned and nodded to the shadows of the stables, from which Midnight appeared, leading a magnificent black horse with a blazing red mane. Kelemvor's shoulders slumped in defeat, the memory of Caitlan's face and the possible loss of the gold she had promised weighing down his acid tongue.

"Do you gamble, Kel?" Midnight asked, playfully.

"It seems I am about to," he grumbled.

Midnight held out her hand. In it, she had a huge, braided tangle that resembled the head of a mop. "Courtesy of your friend, Thurbrand," Midnight said. Kelemvor recognized the strands as human hair; all the human hair, it seemed, that had been left on Thurbrand's head.

"Is he?…"

"Quite upset, aye."

Kelemvor smirked, despite himself. "You just mentioned gambling?"

Midnight nodded. "Consider this my stake to enter your game."

This time Kelemvor did laugh, a hearty laugh that was cut short as he noticed the disguises that peaked out from the packages that sat beside Cyric's mount. He examined the packages to find wigs, surprisingly lifelike masks, and the tattered dresses of a pair of elderly beggar women.

Caitlan appeared behind them, looking bright and healthy. She greeted Midnight as if the woman had been the answer to her prayers, then looked beyond the party, as if to a sight beyond the walls of Arabel, her expression once again turning serious.

"We must go," Caitlan said gravely. "There isn't much time."

Midnight looked to Kelemvor. "I can help Adon with the supplies, if you'd like."

Kelemvor nodded, and snatched up the packages that contained their disguises. Cyric followed him into the inn.

"What's the name of the place we're going to again?" Midnight asked.

"Castle Kilgrave," Adon said.

Midnight shrugged and removed her cloak to work more freely. Her blue-white star pendant glared in the sunlight as she placed her cloak on her mount's back.

In the shadows of the stables, a single shade broke away from the darkness, assumed the form of a raven, then burst from the stables and flew over the heads of the adventurers, flying at speeds no creature of nature could ever attain.