Shadowdale

VI

As the heroes crested the final hill and looked down into the valley where Castle Kilgrave lay, they saw the state of absolute disrepair the castle had fallen into. Kelemvor felt his heart sink as they rode to the ruin.

"Unless some creature got her or the ground swallowed her up, Caitlan is here somewhere," the fighter said. "But I still don't understand why she ran off."

Cyric sighed. "I've told you a dozen times this morning, Kel: I don't think she ran off. Caitlan was still asleep when I came on watch, and I didn't hear her leave."

"But that still doesn't explain where she went," Midnight said, her concern for the child evident in her voice. "Or how she got out of camp without anyone hearing her."

"With all the strange goings on," Adon said, "I wouldn't be surprised if the ground did swallow her up."

Kelemvor tensed. If the girl was dead, or even just gone for good, he wouldn't get his reward. A slight ripple ran through his muscles. "Get off this horse, Adon. Now!"

"But — but — "

When Kelemvor didn't even turn around to argue with him, Adon realized he'd best just walk the rest of the way to Castle Kilgrave. He didn't like sharing a mount with the fighter anyway; he sweated too much.

Kelemvor turned his attentions back to the castle. There could be no question that Castle Kilgrave had once been magnificent. The castle's design was insidiously simple, which made the place all the more intimidating. The keep was a perfect square, with gigantic cylindrical towers placed in each corner. Huge walls connected to the windowless towers, and a massive obelisk jutted from the wall facing the heroes on one side — obviously the entrance. The entire structure had the look of bones left out in the sun to bleach.

As the heroes got closer, they saw that the castle was three stories high, and was surrounded by a moat that had dried up long ago. Whatever creeping terrors the moat once held to frighten away thieves and assassins were now reduced to fragments of misshapen bone that jutted from the rich brown earth and served as excellent grips for Cyric as he descended into the bowl-shaped crevice.

"Try to climb up to the gate," Kelemvor called to Cyric as the thief reached the bottom of the dry moat and started to climb toward the castle.

"Still stating the obvious," Cyric muttered under his breath. "That's our Kelemvor."

The drawbridge stuck partially open, and the massive chains that worked its mechanisms were rusted together, refusing to make even the slightest sound as Cyric climbed from the moat to the base of the chains and grabbed hold of them, using the huge links as hand and footholds. Cyric climbed higher then, to a crumbling ledge, and followed it to the side of the partially raised drawbridge itself. There, Cyric slid between the bridge and the wall, and dropped fifteen feet to the floor. Moments later, he forced the mechanisms to lower the drawbridge.

Kelemvor, Midnight, and Adon tied the horses to the posts that stood as sentinels before the drawbridge, and took only their weapons and some torches with them as the bridge creaked noisily to the ground before them.

"So much for stealth and subtlety," Midnight sighed. "Perhaps we should simply wait here for the owners to welcome us in, too."

Adon found the mage's comments amusing. Kelemvor did not. "Let's just get this over with," the fighter growled as he headed across the bridge. "We can still hope for some reward if we can find Caitlan or her mistress."

Cyric stood at the gate, his sword drawn, waiting for a foul guardian to rush at the heroes as they entered Castle Kilgrave. But no creature reared its ugly head. In fact, the drawbridge's loud descent seemed to attract no attention at all. "This is very odd," the thief said as the heroes joined him. "Perhaps we've found the wrong ruined castle."

Kelemvor frowned and led the way into the first, huge room of the castle. Visibility within the walls was difficult, even with the glittering torches the heroes carried. But it soon became clear that the vast main entry hall was completely empty, and the party headed down a corridor across the room from the gate.

Cyric looked into many of the small rooms they passed as the heroes made their way deeper into Castle Kilgrave. The rooms he saw were all very similar — the shattered remains of a table propped up against one wall, the broken seat of a once-regal chair laying nearby, the decaying corpse of some animal that had found its way in and starved, or became diseased before it met its death in a corner. Other rooms were completely vacant.

The corridors themselves were framed by ivory pillars trimmed with gold at intervals of every sixteen feet. The gold had mostly been scraped away. The rugs that ran through the halls were water-logged and ruined, although the patterns and materials, visible even through the grime, revealed them as once-priceless fineries. The ceilings were arched, and the details of the intricate plasterwork representations were obscured in all but a few cases. The random images visible were odd, chaotic mixes that spoke of clashes between titans, and faceless monarchs who sat upon thrones made of skulls. Not once did the plaster hold an illustration of kindness or joy.

After almost an hour of wandering and finding nothing to substantiate the child's wild story, Cyric put voice to the notion that troubled them all.

"Gold," he said sarcastically, his words echoing wildly through the deserted and shadowy corridors.

"Aye," Kelemvor said, wishing not to be reminded. A violent shudder ran through his body, and the fighter reminded himself that the quest was not over yet. He still might get his reward.

"Riches beyond imagining, adventures beyond belief," Cyric said, cracking his knuckles to relieve the boredom.

"My limbs ache," Adon said quietly.

"At least they're still attached," Kelemvor reminded him, and the cleric fell silent.

"Perhaps there are riches to be found here," Cyric said at last. "Some reward to justify our efforts, at the very least."

"Don't you think this place has been picked clean many times before?" Midnight waved her torch around. "Have you seen anything of value here so far?"

"Not yet," said the thief. "But we haven't gotten very far."

Adon was not convinced. "If Caitlan's mistress was held prisoner here by brigands, human or otherwise, we should stay long enough to find the body and give it a proper burial. Perhaps Caitlan is already here somewhere doing just that."

"Then the best thing to do is split up so we can cover more ground. Adon, you go with Midnight and search the lower floors. Cyric and I will search upstairs," Kel said at last. "We must get some reward for this journey, and I'm not leaving until we find something of value."

When they found a staircase, Kelemvor and Cyric departed to search the upper levels, hoping to find Caitlan — or at least some hidden riches in what had surely once been the royal bedchambers of the wealthy families who raised the fortress long ago.

Adon accompanied Midnight on a search of the castle's lower levels. They descended the spiral staircase, the air growing colder as they made their way beneath the ground. Just as they stepped off the final landing and moved into a small antechamber at the foot of the stairs, Adon uttered a startled cry. A wrought iron gate had descended, impaling one of his billowing sleeves and holding him in place while two other gates shot out, one at each side, their long spears threatening to end the cleric's life.

The cleric tore loose before the gates slammed into place, but he was now separated from Midnight. Adon looked at his torn sleeve, mourned it for no more than a second, and moved to help Midnight as she tested the strength of the bars from the other side of the barricade.

"Kel!" Adon yelled. "Cyric!"

Midnight knew the cleric's cries would not be heard — at least by their friends. She turned away from the bars and was shocked to find a heavy wooden door, three times her height, blocking the way behind her. The door had not been there moments ago. Then there was a scraping at the door, and the sound of a voice crying out beyond it.

"Caitlan?" the magic-user cried. "Caitlan, is that you?"

Midnight leaned in close to the door and strained to make out the sounds more clearly. The door flew open then, revealing a long, empty hallway. The crying had stopped.

Midnight shook her head. "Adon, you wait here and I'll see where this leads."

But when she turned around, the cleric was gone.

Kelemvor and Cyric found the upper levels of the castle in the same state of decay as the ground floor. The only thing that seemed odd was the total lack of windows. Not a single opening had presented itself since they attained the uppermost floor, and each chamber they visited was much like the one before it, either empty or filled with broken furniture and tattered rugs.

At one point they came upon a huge chest, the lid rusted shut. Kelemvor drew his sword and shattered the lock. They both pulled at the lid, then recoiled as their efforts were rewarded by the sickening smell that accompanied their "treasure." Within the chest they found the corpses of a small army of rats. The sudden exposure to the air caused the bodies to decompose rapidly, and they melted into a disgusting pulp that dripped from their splintering skeletons.

As Cyric and Kelemvor returned to the corridor, the fighter felt his muscles tighten and pain shot all through his body. "There's nothing here!" he cried. The fighter dropped his torch and put his hands up to his face. "Get out of here, Cyric. Leave me alone!"

"What are you saying?"

"The girl must have been lying all along. Just leave my mount, take the others, and ride out," Kelemvor said.

"You can't be serious!" Cyric said.

Kelemvor turned his back on the thief. "There is no reward to be found in this place! There is nothing! I renounce the quest."

Cyric felt something strange beneath his feet. He looked down and saw that, beneath him, the tattered rug had begun to reweave itself, its brilliant patterns spreading outward like wildfire down the hall in both directions. The rejuvenated carpet seemed to root itself into the floor; then it sped upward and covered the ceiling.

The corridor began to shake as if an earthquake was tearing through the land beneath the castle. Chunks of the wall broke free and fell on Kelemvor and Cyric, but the blows were absorbed by their armor and they protected their faces the best they could. Then the rug moved to attack them, as if giant, powerful hands were using it like a glove. The rug was clearly trying to grab the warriors and crush the life from them.

Cyric felt a sharp pain as the hands of the carpet grabbed him from behind and threatened to tear him limb from limb. He quickly slashed at the rug with his sword. "Damn you, Kel, do something!"

But the fighter was frozen, his hands still over his face. The carpet grabbed him in a dozen places.

"Caitlan lied," Kelemvor said, pale and shaking. "No reward — "

The fighter let out an unearthly scream. Then he released a catch near his shoulder and allowed his breastplate to fall. The mail beneath ripped apart, and Cyric thought he saw one of Kelemvor's ribs burst from his chest. Then Kelemvor stumbled forward into one of the rips Cyric had created in the carpet and dashed toward the staircase, even as the flesh of his skull seemed to explode outward and something with green glowing eyes and jet-black skin emerged.

The Black Lord felt a smile run across his face. He had hoped to test the powers of the pendant and gauge the strength of Mystra's would-be rescuers. His hopes had been rewarded. Each member of the party had fallen into a separate trap where Bane could observe them and work his dark magics upon them, tearing their souls apart in the process.

Mystra continued to struggle against her eldritch bonds, the proximity of the pendant driving her wild.

"Soon it will be here," Bane said as he turned to the goddess. "Soon it will be mine." The God of Strife threw back his head and laughed.

Mystra's struggles ceased, and she joined Bane in his mad laughter.

"Are you insane?" the Black Lord said as he stopped laughing and moved closer to the captive goddess. "Your 'saviors' do not even know why they're here. They have no idea the power they face, and they have no loyalty to you. All they desire is gold!"

Mystra only smiled, blue-white flames crackling throughout her essence. "Not all," she said, and then was silent.

Bane stood no more than a foot away from the Goddess of Magic and stared at her ever-changing form. "The hakeashar will make you a little less smug," the god said, but he was afraid Mystra had hidden something from him, some other reserve of power.

The surface of the scrying pool bubbled, demanding Bane's attention.

The Dark Lord looked into the pool, and a cruel smile crossed his deformed face. "Your would-be saviors should at least be rewarded for their efforts, don't you think?" Bane tried to cast a spell on the water of the scrying pool. A burst of light erupted from his hands, and six glowing darts flew wildly around the room. The God of Strife cried out as all the magic missiles struck him at once.

"Magic has become unstable since we left the heavens," the Black Lord growled, holding his arm where the missiles had hit him. "Join me, Mystra, and we could make the art stable again."

The Goddess of Magic remained silent.

"No matter," Bane said as he started the incantation once more. "The magical chaos affects we gods far less than it does your mortal worshipers. I will eventually succeed."

Bane cast the spell again, and this time it worked. The water grew hot, set itself to boiling, then became steam and reformed into sparkling clear liquid. The images the water reflected had changed dramatically and Bane watched with interest as the stage for the next part of his plan was set. He dipped his goblet into the water and let it fill.

"They are here for gold and riches? Fine, let them have gold and riches. Let them have their heart's desire, though it may destroy them!"

The beast that had been Kelemvor relied on its senses as it padded through the beautiful forest. It recognized the scent of newly fallen dew, and the moist earth beneath its paws felt soft and burgeoning with life. The sunlight from above was magnificent; it warmed and comforted the beast, which stopped to lick a trace of deer's blood from one of its paws, then moved on.

The trees in the garden touched the heavens themselves, and their branches, blanketed by amber leaves, swayed gently in the breezes that caressed the soft fur of the animal, sending a tingling sensation through its body.

But something was wrong.

The panther came to a clearing. Objects its limited mind could not identify rose into view. The objects had not grown from the earth, had not fallen from the sky. They had been placed here by man, and their purpose intrigued the beast, despite its low intelligence.

Suddenly a stab of pain bore into the animal's skull, and the beast found balance and movement difficult. The panther snarled and threw back its head as something clawed at its gut from within. Then the creature let out a long, horrible wail as its rib cage expanded and burst. Finally, its head split in half and the thick, muscular arms of a man exploded from the ruined skins.

Kelemvor tested his limbs before he attempted to rise. Bits of the panther's flesh still clung to him, and he clawed at the hated reminders of the curse his bloodline had fated him to endure. For now his naked skin was smooth and hairless, although he knew it would only be a matter of minutes before the soft tufts of hair that normally covered his body once again grew into place, spreading across his skin with a will of their own.

Abandoning the quest had caused the transformation this time, Kelemvor decided. Without a reward, going on the journey with Caitlan, risking his life, had been for nothing. The curse did not approve, and the panther had been the punishment.

In the clearing, Kelemvor found his clothing and his sword. His clothing had been soaked through with blood, and the clamminess of the wet leathers against his bare flesh made him wish to strip them off once again, but he knew that would be foolish.

He did not remember coming to this place that seemed to be far removed from Castle Kilgrave. The garden looked little like the flatlands of northern Cormyr. In fact, it looked more like the setting of a tale of romance, where knights jousted for honor's sake and love always won the day.

Kelemvor knew that he was smiling, and memories long repressed flooded back. Before him the memories took flesh, as marble podiums, glazed in soft blue and pink pastels, formed from the air, and a vast library of forbidden books arranged itself. As a child in Lyonsbane Keep, Kelemvor had been denied access to the library except when an adult was present, and then he was only allowed to read military texts or histories. Fantasies, adventures, and romances were hidden on the highest shelf, where only his father could reach them.

In retrospect, Kelemvor wondered why they had been there at all. Was his father, the monstrous, mean-spirited man that he was, taken with these gentle tales? At the time Kelemvor did not think such a thing was possible. No, the books must have belonged to Kelemvor's mother, who died giving birth to him.

From the amount of dust Kelemvor had found on those forbidden books on the frequent occasions when he disobeyed his father and crept into the library in the middle of the night, arranging the chairs and tables to give him access to the wondrous tomes, Kelemvor felt secure that the books were his private treasure, that even his father, at his most cruel, could not take away. In the books he found stories of epic adventure and heroism, and tales of strange and beautiful lands he hungered to one day visit.

Hiding in the forest, after having killed his own father, Kelemvor drew strength from those tales — and hope. Some day, he would be a hero, too, instead of a beast that killed its own kin.

And now a library, its huge shelves filled with wondrous exploits of heroes whose names and adventures had become legend, grew around the fighter. A few of the books flew from the circular arena that was forming in the forest, and opened themselves to display their secret dreams to Kelemvor.

He was shocked to find his own name mentioned time and again in the tales of bravery and heroism. But the events recounted in the stories had not actually occurred. Perhaps this is prophecy, Kelemvor thought as a story in which he saved the entire Realms passed before him. No, he sighed to himself, there could be no payment high enough to satisfy the curse. And if I am not paid in full for doing something that is not in my own best interest, I become the beast.

Kelemvor was so consumed by the words he read in the floating tomes and his musings on the Lyonsbane curse that he did not notice the changes that had been wrought in his surroundings until a familiar voice called out.

"Kelemvor!"

He looked up to behold a beautiful hall that had replaced the forest. The books vanished, and hundreds of men and women stood in the hall. They were perfectly still, standing high upon platforms or pedestals. By their garb and their stance, Kelemvor was certain they were warriors. Each was bathed in a column of light, although the light had no source and melted into the darkness above their heads.

"Kelemvor! Over here, boy!" the same familiar voice called.

The fighter turned and found himself face to face with an older man whose build and stature matched his own perfectly: Burne Lyonsbane, his uncle. The man was standing on a platform, bathed in light.

"This cannot be! You're — "

"Dead?" Burne laughed. "Perhaps. Yet those who are remembered in the annals of history never truly die. Instead they come to this place, this hall of heroes, where they look down on their loved ones and wait until they are joined by them."

Kelemvor backed away from his friend. "I am no hero, good uncle. I have done horrible things."

"Indeed?" Burne said, raising one eyebrow. With a flourish he withdrew his sword and cleaved the air beside him. A shaft of light pierced the darkness and revealed an empty platform. "It is your time, Kelemvor. Take your place amongst the heroes and all will be revealed."

Kelemvor drew his sword. "This is a lie. A travesty! How could you, of all people, betray me now? You were the one who saved me when I was a child!"

"I can save you again," Burne said. "Listen."

"Kel!" a voice called. Kelemvor turned, and standing beside the platform that had been reserved for him was a red-bearded man dressed in the fineries of a warrior king.

"Torum Garr!" Kelemvor said. "But — "

"I would pay tribute to your purity and honor, Kelemvor. If it had not been for your presence at my side during the final battle in our war against the drow, I would have died. You fought, despite the fact that I could pay you with nothing but my thanks. The way you often gave of yourself to protect others, while asking for nothing in return marked you as a true hero!"

Kelemvor's head was swimming. He tightened his grip on his sword. In his memories, Kelemvor had turned his back on Torum Garr, and the exiled king had died in the battle.

"Kelemvor, thanks to you I regained control of my kingdom. Yet when I offered to make you my heir, as I had no sons, you declined the offer. I see now that you acted correctly and with honor. Your bravery has been an example for others to emulate, and your adventures have made you a legend. Accept at last your just reward and stand at our side through eternity."

Another man appeared, a man who was the same age as Kelemvor. He had wild, ebon hair, and an even wilder expression upon his handsome features.

"Vance," Kelemvor said, his voice cold and distant.

The other man stepped down off his pedestal and embraced Kelemvor, forcing the fighter to lower his sword. Vance stood back and regarded Kelemvor. "How fare you, childhood friend? I've come to pay tribute."

Kelemvor had never even imagined what Vance would look like at this age. It had been ten years since the man had been attacked by assassins and Kelemvor had been forced to turn away from his pleas for help, his actions dictated by the curse that had always been the bane of his existence.

"You saved my life, and although the time we spent together was short, I have always treasured you as my first and closest friend. You returned for my wedding, and this time saved not only my life, but that of my wife and our unborn child. Together we discovered the identity of the one who wished me harm and we put an end to the threat. I salute you, my oldest and dearest friend!"

"This can't be right," Kelemvor said. "Vance is dead."

"Here he is alive," Burne Lyonsbane said, and Kelemvor's visitors parted to allow the older man to stand before his nephew. "Take comfort in this place. Assume your rightful position in the hall, and you will remember nothing of your former life. The ghosts that haunt you will be laid to rest, and you will spend an eternity reliving your heroic acts. What say you, Kelemvor?"

"Uncle…," Kelemvor said as he raised his sword. His hands were trembling. "I have dreamed of the day when all you have promised might come true, but the time for dreams has passed."

"Is that the way you wish to see reality? Then behold," Burne said.

Suddenly the book that detailed Kelemvor's life of heroism appeared in his uncle's hands. The pages began to turn by themselves, slowly at first, then increasing in speed as it progressed. Kelemvor realized the book was being rewritten even as he watched. The tales of Kelemvor's heroism were vanishing, to be replaced by stories of his true past.

"Your dreams can become reality, Kel! Choose quickly, before the final tale is written over and your only chance to be a true hero passes you by!"

Kelemvor watched as the tale of his rescue of Vance from the assassins was revised. He heard a scream and looked up just in time to see Vance fade away from the hall. The history in the tome was becoming true, and his chance to right the wrongs he had committed was vanishing before his eyes.

Thrum Garr grasped his arm. "Choose quickly, Kelemvor! Do not let me die again!"

Kelemvor hesitated, and the chapter dealing with Torum Garr was rewritten. The red-bearded king was again slain by the drow. Kelemvor was no longer there to protect him.

Before Kelemvor, Torum Garr vanished.

"It's not too late," Burne Lyonsbane said. "It is not too late to change what you remember." The older man ground his teeth in desperation. He fixed his nephew's gaze with his own. "You remember how it ended between us, Kelemvor. Do not let it happen again! Do not turn away and let me die again!"

Kelemvor squeezed his eyes shut and hacked at the gold-bound volume before him. The binding of the book shattered, and a glowing mist flowed out. All the heroes in the hall faded into clouds of red mist. Then, the hall itself started to blur around the edges and disappear, too. In seconds, only wisps of illusion hung in the air, then they vanished as well.

Kelemvor found himself in a ruined library on the first floor of the castle. At his feet lay an aged, torn volume of children's fairy tales. Kelemvor kicked the book out of his way as he ran to the doorway.

In the hallway, the fighter saw the savaged corpse of a man — probably the deer from his dream. Kelemvor didn't notice that the dead man wore the symbol of Bane, God of Strife, as he raced for the stairway to Castle Kilgrave's dark lower levels.

Midnight found herself walking through an endless series of dark passageways. Adon was gone, and she could not remember how she came to these shadowy hallways. Tiny movements played at the corners of her senses, but she trained her gaze forward and ignored them. She heard something that might have been voices — sounds of anguish and horror. She ignored them, too. They were meant to distract, to lead her away from her goal. She could not allow that to happen.

The magic-user stopped before a well-lit archway. She took a breath, then moved forward into the light, which engulfed her senses as she felt an iron grip take hold of her arm.

"You're late!" an elderly woman snapped. Midnight blinked, and the details of the shining corridor that the older woman led her through at an alarming speed became shockingly clear. Midnight saw a vast hall of mirrors. Each mirror was embedded in a finely trimmed archway, with an ornately detailed bench covered in bright red leather placed before it. Candelabras were set at each side of the archways, and hundreds of chandeliers descended from the arched ceiling. Thousands of candles burned in the corridor, and Midnight recoiled as she caught sight of her own image.

"The ceremony has already begun!" the old woman hissed, shaking her head.

Midnight was dressed in a beautiful gown of sparkling diamonds and rubies, and jewelry made of imperiously set gems adorned her hands and wrists. Her hair had been thrust up and back and was held in a glorious pose by a jeweled crown.

The pendant was gone.

Weakness overtook her limbs at this discovery, and the elderly woman set Midnight down upon one of the regal benches. "Now, now, my dear, this is no time to surrender to butterflies in the stomach. You are to be awarded a great honor this day! Sunlar will be most disappointed if you keep him waiting."

Sunlar? Midnight thought. My teacher from Deepingdale?

Midnight felt the blood drain from her head as she attempted to stand. Then the world became a maddening swirl of chandeliers and glowing candles only to right itself as Midnight realized she was now sitting on a throne in a beautiful temple. A throng of robed men and women stood before her, and the opulence of the domed chamber made the corridor of mirrors seem like a tasteful example of understatement.

Sunlar entered the temple with a small group of students attending him. He was the high priest of Mystra in Deepingdale, and he had taken a personal interest in Midnight's care and training when she was younger, although he would never explain the reasons behind his actions.

Sunlar had been handsome and strong when Midnight knew him, and as he crossed the length of the throne room, Midnight saw that his features were exactly as she remembered them. His eyes were a ghostly blue-white, and his hair was brown and full, with immaculately styled waves and two locks that fell to his eyebrows, framing his chiseled features. But he was dressed in ceremonial robes that Midnight had never seen before, such fineries surely held in reserve for greeting visiting royalty.

A handful of men and women surrounded Midnight. They wore the blue-white star symbol of Mystra, and were careful to avert their gaze whenever Midnight attempted to make eye contact with one of them, as if they were not worthy of looking directly at her. Midnight was unsettled by their actions, and just before she opened her mouth to question them, Sunlar arrived before her.

"Lady Midnight," Sunlar called. "This gathering is in your honor. Yet it is in the interest of all who attend to hear your words and honor your decision."

"My… decision?" Midnight said, quite confused.

Sunlar seemed troubled. Despite the reverence in which Midnight and these proceedings had been held, a tide of whispers flooded the chamber. Sunlar raised his hands and there was silence.

"It is only proper that Midnight is allowed to formally hear what has been offered to her once again," Sunlar said as he turned to the hundreds of worshipers who had gathered in the temple.

Sunlar looked back to Midnight.

"This honor has not been given by the Lady of Mysteries in a long time," he said, and held out his hand to Midnight. She rose and took it. Suddenly the lights dimmed in the chamber, and an immense blue-white star appeared above their heads, a constant flow of smaller shimmering stars circling its perimeter. There was a collective gasp from the worshipers as the glowing star revealed itself to be flat, like a coin. Then the surface of the star sparkled and changed, becoming a portal to another dimension. The light from this other realm was blinding, and Midnight could see very little of what lay beyond the gateway.

Midnight covered her eyes. "The power of the Magister?"

Sunlar smiled. "Yes, Lady Midnight, the power of the Magister." The glowing portal was spinning wildly, turning end-over-end.

"Lady Mystra, Goddess of Magic, has chosen you above all else in the Realms to become her champion — the Magister," Sunlar said.

They stood directly below the spinning portal. Midnight raised her hand and felt the tiny stars that accompanied the portal as they caressed her flesh. The sensation brought a smile to her lips. She surveyed the faces of the people who had gathered in the temple. They wore expressions of kindness and love, and a great surge of expectation could be felt emanating from them. She recognized many of the people as fellow students from her time in Deepingdale.

Midnight looked up, into the blinding light of the gateway. "You can't be serious."

Sunlar reached up and the portal descended toward them. Midnight was rooted to the spot. "Come. We will visit Mystra's domain, the magical weave that surrounds the world. Perhaps that will help you to decide."

The gateway engulfed Midnight and Sunlar, and the magic-user found herself in a realm of bizarre constructs of bluish white light that displayed themselves before her, their constantly changing patterns almost a language unto itself. There was a blinding flash, and Midnight saw that she was rising into the air. She and Sunlar passed through the walls of the temple, then rose into the air and flew beyond the clouds until Faerun was only a spinning mote of dust far below. Midnight viewed the planet for a moment, then felt a presence at her back. She turned and found herself confronting an incredible matrix of energy, a beautiful weave of power that spread itself across the universe and pulsed with a fire unlike anything Midnight had ever seen.

"You can be a part of this," Sunlar said.

Midnight reached out to the weave, but stopped as she caught sight of her own hand. Her flesh had become translucent, and within the boundaries of her form, she saw a pulse of fantastic colors that mirrored the raw magical energy before her.

"This is power," Sunlar said. "Power to build worlds, to heal the sick, to destroy evil. Power to serve Mystra as she wishes you to."

Midnight was overwhelmed.

"It is within your grasp," Sunlar said. "And it is your responsibility to take it, Midnight. No one else can be Lady Mystra's champion on Faerun. No one but you."

The raven-haired mage was silent for a moment, then she said quietly, "But what does Mystra want in return for this honor?"

"Your absolute loyalty, of course. And you'll have to devote the rest of your life to fighting for Mystra's causes all across the Realms."

"Then she wants everything. I'll have no life of my own."

Sunlar smiled. "That's a small price to pay to become a goddess's most powerful representative in the world."

Sunlar faced the tiny world far below and spread his arms wide. "All this will be yours, Lady Midnight. You will be gaining the entire world as your charge. And without you, it will certainly perish."

The fabric of the universe began to tear. Vast sections of the weave unraveled before Midnight's eyes, and images of the temple and Mystra's followers could be seen beyond the rips. They were screaming, calling out for Mystra to save them. Calling for the Magister to heal the Realms.

"You must choose quickly," Sunlar said.

The holes in the universe widened. In places Midnight could no longer see the weave at all.

"You are the only one who can save the Realms, Lady Midnight, but you must decide to do it right now."

Midnight's breath became ragged. The weave seemed to call to her. She started to open her mouth to speak, to accept her responsibility, when she heard a voice, soft but distinct, crying out with the worshipers in the temple.

"Midnight," a familiar voice cried. "I need your help to save Cyric and Adon!"

"Kel!" Midnight cried. "Sunlar, I must help him."

"Ignore his petty concerns," Sunlar said. "Better still solve his problems by helping all the Realms."

"Wait, Sunlar. I cannot forsake everything that makes up my life, everyone that I care about, on a moment's notice. I need more time!"

"That is the one thing you don't have," Sunlar said softly.

Eternity vanished. The weave was gone. Only the temple remained. Midnight looked down at her hands and saw that they were flesh and blood once again. She felt the sting of tears on her cheek and almost laughed.

One of Mystra's worshipers moved forward. It was a man, and she recognized his face.

Kelemvor.

The fighter held out his hand. "Come back," he said. "The others need you. I need you."

Sunlar grasped her shoulder and turned her to face him. "Don't listen to him. You have a duty to your goddess! You have a duty to the Realms!"

"No!" Midnight shouted as she pulled herself free from Sunlar's grasp. Mystra's followers froze in mid-motion, and Kelemvor, now dressed in his fighting gear, stood before her.

"You have dishonored yourself and your goddess," Sunlar said, his face fading into the shadows that fell upon the throne room like curtains, darkening the illusions. Then he was gone. In moments only scattered patches of illusion remained, and Midnight saw Kelemvor crawling on the floor of a room that once might have been an audience hall. A large, overturned chair that bore a striking resemblance to the throne she had sat upon lay in the corner. The musty chamber was domed, just as it had been in her illusion.

Midnight looked down and saw that the pendant was still there, still grafted to her skin.

"What's going on here? One minute I'm opening a door, the next I'm floating above the world, now I'm in a ruined throne room."

Then Midnight noticed that Kelemvor appeared wounded. She ran to his side as he collapsed, but saw that his face and body were unscarred. Still, the fighter was sweating and seemed very frightened.

"Offer me something!" he snarled, his voice low and very menacing.

"What? What are you talking about?"

Kelemvor flinched and his ribs seemed to move of their own accord. Midnight looked at him warily.

"A reward!" he said, and his flesh began to darken. "For helping to free you from the illusion and for going on with the quest. We abandoned it, Cyric and I — "

The fighter shuddered and turned away from Midnight. "Hurry!"

"A kiss," she said softly. "Your reward will be a kiss from my lips."

Kelemvor collapsed on the floor, out of breath. When he rose, his skin had returned to its natural complexion.

"What was that all about?" Midnight said.

Kelemvor shook his head. "We have to find the others."

"But I — "

"We can't possibly make it out of here alive without them," Kelemvor yelled. "So, for our own good, we have to do it now!"

Midnight did not move.

"We were separated," Kelemvor said. "Sent to different parts of the castle. I awoke in a library on the first floor. I followed the noise until I found you."

"Noise? Then you saw and heard — "

"Very little. I heard your voice and followed it until I found you. But we'll have more time to figure this out later. Now, help me find the others!"

Midnight followed the fighter down the darkened corridors.

After Kelemvor escaped through the tear in the carpet, it started to close in around Cyric, and it dwindled until it was the size of a large chest. The thief tried to slice the rug with his sword, but it was no use; the blade simply bounced off each time he struck at the trap. The carpet continued to shrink until Cyric felt it conform to the shape of his body and squeeze with such pressure that he blacked out. When he awoke, he was in one of the back alleys of Zhentil Keep, being kicked awake by a watchman, just as he had been regularly in his childhood.

"Move along," one of the Black Guard said. "Or else nothing but steel will fill your gut this day."

Cyric fended off the blows and rose to his feet.

"Stinking vagrants," the guard said, and spat at the ground near Cyric's feet. The thief moved forward to attack the man, but something reached out from the shadows behind him. Hands were pressed against Cyric's mouth, others held his arms. He fought against the pull of the hands but there was nothing he could do. He was dragged into the side alley as the watchman stood and laughed.

"Calm down, boy," an all too familiar voice said.

Cyric watched as the guard walked to the end of the alley and turned off onto the street, vanishing from sight.

The thief allowed his body to relax, and the iron grip that held him loosened. Cyric turned and faced the shadows. Even before his eyes adjusted to the darkness he knew the identity of the men before him.

One was known as Quicksal, an evil little thief who took great pleasure in killing his victims. Just as Cyric remembered it, Quicksal's fine, golden hair was unwashed, and traces of dyes of every type could be found within it, as he generally tried to disguise himself. False beards, age make up, strange accents, odd personality traits — all these were part of an ever growing repertoire that Quicksal called upon to create vivid characters for potential witnesses to remember. His face was thin and hawklike, and his fingers were extremely long. Strangely, Quicksal still appeared to be in his teens, though Cyric knew he had to be at least twenty-five years old.

The other man was Marek, and when Cyric examined the face of his mentor, he did not find the aging, hard-lined visage he had looked upon just the other night, when Marek ambushed him at the inn. This Marek was younger, and the tight, curly hair upon his head was jet-black, not the salt-and-pepper-gray it should have been. His skin had only just begun to show a hint of the wrinkles that would one day develop. His piercing blue eyes had not surrendered any of their earlier fires, and the man's large frame no longer displayed any trace of flabbiness. This was the man Cyric had studied under, had robbed and committed now unthinkable acts for without hesitation. Cyric had been an orphan, and in many ways, Marek was the only father he ever knew.

"Come with us," Marek said, and Cyric obeyed, allowing himself to be led through a set of doorways into the kitchen of an inn that Cyric did not recognize. Cyric had always allowed himself to be led, it seemed, and when they passed into the lighted hallway, Cyric noticed his own reflection in a nearby mirror. More than ten years had been taken from his face — the crow's feet were gone from around his eyes; his skin seemed more resilient, less hardened by the passage of time and the hardships he had endured.

"You're probably wondering why we're here," Marek said to the grotesquely fat cook who stood near a curtain at the other end of the kitchen.

"No, not al all," the fat man said, a broad smile holding up his blubbery cheeks. He pointed to the curtain and said, "She's right in here."

Marek grabbed Cyric by the arm and led him to the curtain. "Look," Marek said and drew open the curtains very slightly. "There's our next victim, and your ride to freedom, Cyric."

Cyric looked out. Only a few tables in the taproom were visible from his vantage, and only one of those was occupied. A handsome middle-aged woman, dressed in fine silks and carrying a purse filled to overflowing sat at the table, sipping a bowl of soup that had just been brought to her by an attractive serving girl. She stopped the girl.

"This soup is not piping hot!" the woman shrieked in a voice that made Cyric's teeth hurt. "I asked that my soup be piping hot, not merely warm!"

"But ma'am — "

The woman grasped the serving girl's hand. "See for yourself!" the woman cried, and thrust the girl's hand into the steaming bowl of soup. The girl bit back a scream, and managed to wrench her hand free without spilling the contents of the bowl upon the middle-aged woman. The flesh of the girl's hand was bright red. The soup had been scalding.

"If you cannot meet my needs, I will have to take my business elsewhere!" the woman said. She rolled her eyes. "I do wish I knew what was keeping my nephew. He was supposed to meet me here." She frowned and gestured at the soup. "Now take this away and bring me what I asked for!"

The serving girl took the bowl, bowed slightly, and turned to walk back to the kitchen, causing Cyric to draw back before he was seen.

"Relax," Marek said from behind Cyric, and the curtains parted, admitting the girl. She looked at Marek and shoved her serving tray into Cyric's waiting hands. She pressed against Marek and kissed him full on the lips. Then she pulled back, grabbed a damp cloth from the sink, and wrapped it around her hand.

"I'd like not to wait for my cut this time," she said.

Quicksal eased his blade from its sheath then slammed it back again, making a sharp scrape that caused the serving girl to smile. "I promise our benefactor won't have to wait for hers."

"I'll second that," Cyric said, surprising himself with the sentiment.

The serving girl winked at Marek. "You know where to find me this evening. We'll celebrate."

She took the serving tray back from Cyric and went to a boiling pot of soup in the kitchen and ladled out another serving. Then she dropped the wet cloth and headed back to the taproom with the steaming soup.

"Stay here," Marek said, and followed the girl. Cyric parted the curtains and watched as Marek spoke to the woman. Cyric dropped the curtain when Quicksal tugged on his sleeve.

"Time to go," Quicksal said, and moments later they were once again crouched in the shadows of the alley behind the inn. The doorway opened and Marek ushered the woman into the alley. She looked around, disoriented and confused.

"I don't understand," the old woman said. "You say my nephew has been beset in this alley, that he can't be moved, and — "

Understanding lit in her eyes as Quicksal pushed away from the shadows.

"You're not my auntie," Quicksal said. "But we'll take your money anyway."

The woman started to scream but Quicksal pushed her against a wall and put his hand over her mouth. He drew his knife and placed it against her throat. "Quiet now, Auntie. I wouldn't want to have to kill you right away. Besides, this is Zhentil Keep. If your screams do draw someone here, they'll only want a share of your money."

Marek grabbed the woman's purse and rifled through it. Then he nodded with a pained expression.

"Alas, this is not enough," Marek said, and motioned for Cyric to move forward. Quicksal backed away from the woman, but kept his blade extended toward her as he did.

"I have nothing else!" she cried. "Mercy!"

"I would respect your request," Marek said sadly, lowering his head. "But I cannot deny the young ones their pleasure."

Cyric drew his blade. Quicksal placed his hand on the boy's chest and snickered. "You'll never be able to kill her, Cyric. And then Marek will be stuck with you as an apprentice forever." The blond thief moved toward the woman again. "You might as well let me kill her, Marek."

"Stand away!" Cyric said, and Quicksal turned to face him.

There were tears in the woman's eyes. "Help me," she cried, her hands shaking.

"Ah, such a dilemma," Marek said. "Who shall spill this innocent blood?"

Cyric turned sharply. "There is no innocence in this world!"

Marek raised an eyebrow. "But what crime has this woman committed?"

"She hurt the girl."

Marek shrugged. "So? I've hurt her many times myself. She didn't seem to be complaining," Marek laughed. "I think Quicksal should kill the woman. After all, Cyric, you have never showed me that you're ready to be independent, and the Thieves' Guild might not approve."

"You're lying!" Cyric shouted. With each step Quicksal took toward the woman, Cyric saw his chance for independence slipping farther away.

"A moment," Marek said, raising his hand to Quicksal, then turning to Cyric, "Does she deserve to die, just so you can have your freedom?"

"I know her. She is…" Cyric shook his head. "She is arrogance and vanity. Privilege and prejudice. Content to ignore the poor and the needy, ready to let us die before she would raise a hand to help. She is distant and cruel, except when her head is on the block. Then she cries for mercy, for forgiveness. I have seen her type before. She is all that I despise."

"And she has no redeeming qualities? She is not capable of love or kindness? There is no chance she might change her ways?" Marek said.

"None at all," Cyric said.

"Quite an argument," Marek said. "But I am not swayed. Quicksal, kill her."

The woman gasped and tried to run, but Quicksal was far too fast for her. She hadn't taken two steps before the blond thief was upon her and her throat was slit. The woman collapsed into the alley. Quicksal smiled. "Perhaps next time, Cyric."

Cyric looked into Quicksal's eyes and felt as if he had delved into twin pools of madness. "I deserve my freedom," Cyric growled and drew his knife.

"Then prove it to me," Marek said. "Show me your worth and I will award you your independence. I will give you safe passage from the city if you want it, and I will make the Thieves' Guild recognize you as a full member. Your life will be your own, to do with as you will."

Cyric shuddered. "Everything I've dreamed," he said absently.

"But only you can make the dream a reality," Marek said. "Now be a good boy and kill Quicksal there."

Cyric looked back to Quicksal and saw that the blond thief was now holding a sword that he did not have only seconds earlier. However, instead of readying to attack, Cyric's rival stood in a defensive posture and looked very frightened.

"Put away your knife," Quicksal said in a voice that was not his own. "Don't you recognize me?"

Cyric held his ground. "Only too well. And don't try to confuse me by disguising your voice. I know all your tricks."

Quicksal shook his head. "This isn't real!" Cyric knew he should have recognized the voice Quicksal was using but he couldn't concentrate on it. The blond thief took a step backward. "It's an illusion, Cyric. I don't know what you think you see in front of you, but it's me, Kelemvor."

Cyric struggled to place the name or the voice, but it was difficult to think.

"You've got to fight," Quicksal said.

"He's right, Cyric," Marek said softly. "You have to fight this." But Marek's voice was suddenly different, too. He sounded like a woman.

Cyric didn't move. "Something is wrong here, Marek. I don't know what kind of games you're playing with me, but I really don't care. I expect you to hold to your word." With that, Cyric lunged at Quicksal.

Quicksal sidestepped Cyric's first thrust, and surprised Cyric by retreating a few steps and assuming a defensive posture. This isn't Quicksal's style at all, Cyric thought.

"Stop this at once," Quicksal said, parrying Cyric's next thrust. Cyric moved with the force of the parry and crashed his elbow into Quicksal's face. At the same time, he tossed his blade from one hand to the other and grabbed Quicksal's wrist. Then Cyric rammed the blond thief's hand against the wall and forced him to drop his sword.

"With your death, I gain a life," Cyric cried and raised his knife to kill the blond thief.

"No, Cyric, you're killing a friend!" Marek screamed, and Cyric recognized the voice as Midnight's just before his dagger struck his opponent's shoulder. His victim wasn't Quicksal: it was Kelemvor.

As best he could, Cyric pulled back on his knife thrust. But it was too late. The dagger sunk into Kelemvor's shoulder.

Kelemvor pushed him away, and Cyric crashed to the floor, his dagger still stuck in his victim's shoulder. The fighter picked up his sword and started toward the thief. "Forgive me," Cyric whispered as the warrior raised his sword to strike.

"Kel, don't!" Midnight shouted. "He can see it's us!"

The fighter stood still, then dropped his sword. Cyric backed away and saw Midnight standing where Marek had stood only a second earlier. Then Kelemvor was beside her, blood leaking from his wounded shoulder. The fighter's face had gone white.

The alley started to fade and disappear, but the body of the woman Quicksal had killed, the woman Cyric would have murdered if he'd been given the chance, still lay face down in the dirt. A pool of blood was still spreading out from beneath her. Cyric stared at the woman until she, too, faded from sight.

"What does he see?" Kelemvor whispered. "There's nothing there." Midnight shook her head.

"I'm sorry, Kel. I thought you were someone else," Cyric said as he approached the fighter.

Kelemvor plucked the dagger from his shoulder, flinching at the incredible pain. He dropped the weapon at Cyric's feet as Midnight helped him bind up his wounded shoulder.

"We have to find Adon," Kelemvor said. "He's the only one left."

"I can guess what his temptation is," Midnight said as she finished binding Kelemvor's wound and the heroes raced for the stairs.

Adon had turned away from the bars that separated him from Midnight and walked a short way down the hall, just to see if there was some easy way for him to rejoin the mage on the other side of the barrier. Now he found himself staring up at an incredibly beautiful, star-filled sky.

And such a strange array of stars, too, Adon noted as he looked up at the night sky. They all appear to be moving.

Indeed the stars were in motion, rocketing across the sky at such speeds that many were only blurs of light. Adon closed his eyes, but the stars remained, playing their games even behind his closed lids.

Adon gazed at the stars for a long time. When next he looked around, he found himself laid out on a delicate bed of roses, and the fragrance that flooded his senses was sweet and gentle, although it caused his heart to beat faster and his head to grow numb. The petals brushed against his fingers so lightly that he could not help but smile at the delicacy. Then it occurred to Adon. The stars weren't moving at all; he was.

He opened his eyes and gazed over the edge of his bed of flowers only to find a dozen of the most beautiful beings he had ever seen. Their hair seemed to have been set aflame, and their bodies were specimens of utter physical perfection. Adon's magnificent bed rested upon their willing shoulders.

The presence of these beings reassured Adon so much that he didn't even flinch when a wall of flames sprang up around him. His vision blurred a bit, and all he surveyed seemed to take on an amber cast, but there was no heat as the flames leaped from the red to white roses, changing them to black orchids, and finally jumped to the cleric's flesh. There was no pain, not even mild discomfort, when the fires engulfed him. There was nothing but the bright glow of love and well-being that coursed through his soul as he came to the final understanding of his own death that must have happened long before this moment.

Strain as he might, he could remember none of what happened after he was separated from Midnight in the corridors below Castle Kilgrave. He woke upon his funeral pyre, being carried to what could only be his eternal reward.

But how did I die? Adon wondered, and the shifting, beautiful voices of his bearers filled the crackling air around him.

"One never remembers," they said. "The moment of pain is suffered by another, to spare you."

Another?

"Others such as we have become. Our purpose is to alleviate suffering. We live your death that you might be reborn into the Kingdom of Sune."

Shining crystal spires cut through the night, and Adon focused his attention on the temple before him. As it stretched across the horizon, the temple's walls were graced with stunningly beautiful crystalline designs, though no uniform pattern made the infinite palace boring or repetitious. It was as if each of Sune's followers who found rest in this place had contributed their own concepts of the boundaries and appearances that eternity should reveal. An amalgam of expectations resulted, yet some guiding hand had taken all the disparate images and incorporated them into an ordered whole, disappointing no one and creating a place of beauty that defied Adon's wildest dreams to surpass.

The entrance alone was larger than any temple Adon had seen before, and what lay beyond was a world unto itself. His bearers brought him through lands where a countless number of worshipers bathed and frolicked in pools that had been formed from their own tears of joy, and the rocks they lay upon as they luxuriated in the warmth of Sune's love for them had once been the stones of disbelief that weighted down their souls and made union with the goddess impossible. Relieved of the terrible burdens of life, they could now devote themselves totally to the preservation of order, beauty, and love by worshiping Sune.

Adon and his bearers passed through many such lands, each new vista overwhelming Adon more than the last, and Adon was surprised at his capacity to take in more and more of these spellbinding raptures until at last his bearers vanished and he found himself standing before a wrought iron gateway that shimmered and became a shower of sparkling water. He passed through it.

What lay beyond was a very small chamber in comparison to the wonders Adon had witnessed just moments before. There were no walls to this room, though, and all around it vast and intense flames leaped to the sky. Soft, billowing curtains protected the cleric's eyes from the roaring flames and set the boundaries of the room that lay in the heart of beauty's eternal fires.

"A drink?"

Adon turned and the Goddess of Beauty herself, Sune Firehair, stood before him. Glasses filled with a rich, crimson nectar waited in each of her glowing hands. As Adon took one of the glasses, he saw that his flesh started to blaze with the same amber light as Sune's flesh.

"Goddess," Adon said, and fell to his knees before her, spilling not a drop of the drink in his hand.

Sune laughed and brought him to his feet with one of her powerful hands. Adon felt his breath freeze in his lungs as she touched him, a power undreamed of flooding through his limbs as he stood before her.

Breath. I'm still alive, Adon thought, rejoicing at the knowledge.

Sune seemed to read his thoughts. "You have not died, foolish boy. Not yet. I have brought you here for the most basic of reasons: I am in love with you. You, above all my worshipers, are all that I desire."

Adon was speechless, and so he brought the chalice to his lips and felt the sweet nectar run its course through his body. "Goddess, surely I am not worthy — "

Sune smiled and disrobed before him, shedding a fiery silk robe and allowing it to fall to the floor and vanish. Adon looked down and saw rolling clouds beneath his feet.

"I am beauty," Sune said. "Touch me."

Adon walked forward, as if in a dream.

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

From somewhere Adon heard a voice cry out in warning, but he ignored it. Nothing could be more important than this moment. He took the goddess in his arms and brought his lips to hers.

The kiss seemed endless. But even before Adon opened his eyes, he felt Sune changing. Her gentle lips had become fierce, demanding. An endless series of sharpened pincers seemed to move from her elongating jaws, seeking to rend the flesh of the cleric's face. Her fingers had transformed into vicious snakes that latched onto his flesh as they threatened to tear him apart.

"Sune!" Adon cried.

The creature laughed as the snaking tendrils of its fingers wrapped themselves around Adon's throat. "You are not worthy of the goddess," it said. "You have sinned against her and you must be punished!"

Across the open, central courtyard of Castle Kilgrave, Midnight, Kelemvor, and Cyric stared as the cleric fell to his knees in absolute terror, driven to this position by something that only he could see.

"Goddess forgive me!" Adon cried. "I will do anything to win your forgiveness. Anything!"

"We have to get to him quickly," Midnight said.

"You will do nothing!" a thunderous voice rang out, its echoes filling the courtyard. "You will do nothing but die by the hand of Bane!"

Suddenly the trio was bombarded by illusions. In the span of a dozen heartbeats, Kelemvor was sent into the dream world of his childhood books: he lived an epic love story wherein he was a foreign prince sent to marry a lovely but heartless princess, and he forsook his very kingdom to run off with a peasant girl. Midnight saw herself as a powerful queen, saving her kingdom from poverty and want. At the same time, images of a free and unfettered life passed before Cyric's eyes, along with offers of gold and priceless artifacts. But the images of heroism and power and freedom held no sway over them. As one, the heroes charged to the center of the courtyard.

The challenges occurred more rapidly as the heroes moved on: Sunlar appeared before Midnight, daring her to a magical duel. Her entire class lined up behind the teacher, anxious to try their skills against her. Cyric faced the ice creature that stood guardian over the Ring of Winter. He watched helplessly as the monster reached out for him. Kelemvor faced the executioners who took the life of his grandfather, but now they had come for him. He looked down to find that he was now old and tired. His attempts to find a cure for his condition and salvation for his withered soul had been a failure.

But still the heroes pressed forward to the center of the courtyard and Adon's side.

Still on his knees, Adon stared as paradise tore itself apart and was reordered. The demon creature that had pretended to be the goddess had left him, but Sune's kingdom had changed. The death and punishment of its charges was now the mainstay of its existence, as robed figures enslaved and tormented Sune's faithful.

"This is a lie!" Midnight screamed as she got close to Adon.

The cleric turned, wide-eyed, and saw someone who looked just like Midnight standing beside him — but she wore the robes of the Sunites' tormentors.

"But… it was so beautiful!" Adon said, angry at Midnight's words.

"Look about you," Midnight said. "This is reality!"

Adon looked and saw the goddess Sune chained to a huge slab. The robed figures were lowering the slab into a river that ran scarlet with the blood of Sune's followers.

And each of the robed figures wore a pendant, exactly like Midnight's.

"The pendant!" Sune shouted. "It is the source of their power! Take it and I will be free!"

Midnight grabbed Adon by the shoulders. "Damn it, listen to me!"

"No!" Adon screamed, and before Kelemvor or Cyric could react, the cleric lunged at Midnight with a ferocity she had not expected. Adon's hand closed over Midnight's dagger, and he pulled it away from her. Feet together, Midnight kicked the cleric in the midsection, sending him flying backward, the dagger still clutched in his hand. There was a sharp crack as Adon's head struck the ground. Then the cleric lay in a heap, stunned by the blow.

Midnight began the movements and the chanting that would release a spell to dispel the magical assault. As she prayed that the spell would not go awry, the tiny fires upon the pendant crackled. There was a blinding flash of blue-white light as Midnight's spell released a maelstrom of magics that enveloped the courtyard.

Bane fell back, crying out as the water of the scrying pool became a scalding torrent of blood that erupted in a geyser as the pool exploded. All around Castle Kilgrave, the spells Bane had used to transform the ruins into a minor reflection of his home in the Planes were shattered by Midnight's magic.

Bane's temple, his New Acheron, was crumbling. The fantastic gateways he had opened were now closing. The corridors and chambers that so cleverly held replicas of Bane's former temple in the Planes lost their tenuous hold on reality and burned away.

In moments all that was left was the ruined remains of a mortal's castle. Bane fell forward, sobbing, and part of his mind marveled at discovering another new sensation these humans lived with every day of their short existence:

Loss.

New Acheron was gone.

When at last he turned and summoned the hakeashar so he could gather the power to kill Mystra's would-be rescuers, the Black Lord was shocked to find the mystical chains that held the goddess empty.

Mystra had escaped.