Tantras

XI

Bane was furious. News of the seizure of the Queen of the Night and Midnight's escape from Scardale had driven the Black Lord into such a state that he had refused to speak to anyone the entire day. Now, sitting alone in his chambers in Scardale, the fallen God of Strife muttered and cursed.

Suddenly the doors to his chamber opened and the sorceress, Tarana Lyr, entered. The blond madwoman was practically drooling with excitement.

"Why do you disturb me when I left strict orders that I wished solitude?" Bane snarled, curling his hands into fists.

The sorceress took a deep breath. "There is a man who wishes to see you, Lord Bane. He waits just outside this chamber."

"A man?" Bane asked irascibly. "Not a god?"

The blond sorceress looked at the Black Lord in confusion. "A god, Lord Bane?"

The God of Strife closed his eyes, trying to control his anger. "The presence of another god would have been sufficient cause for you to interrupt my meditation. Not the supplications of a mortal."

"I think you will see this mortal," Tarana purred, rocking back and forth on her heels.

Gripping the arms of his throne, Bane grimaced as he growled, "I do not trust you, mage, but show him in anyway."

Tarana Lyr sprinted across the length of the chamber and threw the door open wide. "He will see you now," she cooed from the door.

A lean, dark-haired man entered the chamber, and the sorceress quietly closed the door behind him.

Bane leaped from his throne, suddenly, frighteningly aware that Fzoul had reclaimed his body.

"You!" the priest shouted in anger, and images of Cyric firing an arrow into the red-haired man at the Ashaba Bridge coursed through the mind he shared with the God of Strife. The priest's anger pushed the Black Lord's consciousness down into his mind's dark recesses. Fzoul reached out to the sorceress. "Give me your dagger!"

Cyric stood motionless, a thin film of sweat on his brow. "Lord Bane, you must listen — "

Fzoul grabbed the weapon from Tarana and advanced on the thief. "Not Bane, you imbecile! It is Fzoul Chembryl who will taste your blood this day."

The hawk-nosed thief backed away from the red-haired priest. The last thing Cyric expected was to confront Fzoul. He was certain that Bane would have crushed Fzoul's mind completely when he took the priest as an avatar.

Fzoul lunged with the knife and Cyric sidestepped as best he could. But maneuverability was limited in the chamber, and a single misstep could mean death. Cyric couldn't risk drawing a weapon. If he killed the avatar of Bane, the explosion might level the entire port town of Scardale — or the fallen god might choose his body to inhabit next. Worse still, the giggling blond sorceress was chanting and seemed prepared to release a spell.

The red-haired priest feinted to the left then drove his body to the right, crashing into Cyric. Both men tumbled to the ground. The thief's head struck the floor with a sharp crack, and Fzoul drove the dagger toward Cyric's right eye, then stopped. The priest's eyes turned crimson, and Bane smiled as he stared into Cyric's wide, panic-filled eyes.

"Fzoul's anger surprises me sometimes," the Black Lord said casually as he climbed off the thief and handed the dagger back to the sorceress. "He has a capacity for hate greater than most gods. Excepting myself, of course."

"No need, Lord Bane," Cyric said as he struggled to his feet.

Bane turned his back on Cyric and climbed to his throne. "I hadn't expected to see you, thief," the God of Strife noted.

"Reports from my assassins told me that you were dead. Of course, my assassins have hardly been reliable these days."

Cyric shook his head, and confusion crossed his face. "Wait a minute. What happened to Fzoul?" the thief asked numbly.

Settling back in his throne, the god laughed and tapped his forehead. "The priest struggles for freedom… in here. We have a deal, you see. He does certain things for me. I allow him to rail at his fate and curse the world. Sometimes he gets out of control." The Black Lord paused for a moment then smiled. "He'll be punished later," he said, seemingly to himself.

Looking off at the wall for a moment, Bane listened to Fzoul's cries for vengeance. The smile dropped from the god's face as he turned back to the thief. "I see you wear my colors, Cyric."

The thief looked down at the Zhentilar garb he had taken from the Company of the Scorpions. "I suppose I do," Cyric answered absently.

"Why have you come here, thief?" Bane asked gravely. "You should have known that a slow, painful death is the most you can hope for at my hands. You are, after all, allied with forces that seek my destruction and the fall of my empire."

"No longer, Lord Bane," Cyric stated flatly. "I entered Scardale with a troop of Zhentilar two hundred men strong, and all loyal to my command."

"Oh, I see," Bane snickered. "You seek to usurp my power. Shall I abdicate now, Lord Cyric?"

The hawk-nosed thief remained perfectly still, his arms at his sides, his hands open, palms to the god. The sorceress approached Cyric, squinting as she stared into his face. Next she circled the man, examining him from every vantage.

"I have no intention of challenging you," Cyric said, ignoring the giggling madwoman who still circled around him. "I wish to offer my services to your cause."

A single laugh escaped the lips of the Black Lord. In his mind, Fzoul was screaming.

You cannot trust him, the red-haired priest cried to the Black Lord. He will betray us. The thief will destroy us both!

Bane sent a horde of gibbering, imaginary terrors to chase away Fzoul's consciousness. For your impudence, I may just make him your commander when I'm done, Fzoul, the fallen god taunted to his avatar's mind as it retreated.

The god looked to the mortal who stood before him. "Tell me why I should believe you," Bane growled, the smile suddenly gone from his face. "Your cursed friend, Kelemvor, played this game with me. He made a pact then reneged on his agreement at the first opportunity. What guarantee do I have that you would not do the same?"

Cyric started at the mention of the fighter's name. Perhaps his former allies were still alive after all. He quickly pushed all thoughts of Midnight and Kelemvor aside, though, and returned to the Black Lord's question. The answer was rather obvious. "None," the thief said firmly.

Bane raised a single eyebrow. "You're honest, anyway." The God of Strife paused then stood. "Give me some proof that you favor my causes. Tell me about the mage."

Cyric told the Black Lord more than he ever intended to relate. He informed Bane of almost all that had occurred from the time he first met Midnight in the walled city of Arabel, to the time they were separated on the Ashaba.

"I'm intrigued," Bane said as he paced back and forth in front of his throne. "For some reason, I actually think you're telling me the truth."

"I am," Cyric told the god. "I've kept myself alive through much to offer my services to your cause." The thief smiled and then explained the intricate series of deceptions that had kept him alive from the time Yarbro and Mikkel found him on the Ashaba's banks to the present. Tarana stood by the thief with her arms folded across her breasts. The mad mage hugged herself tightly as the bloodshed and violence was exposed by Cyric's casual narrative.

Bane shook his head as Cyric concluded his gory tale. "In the last few weeks, you've betrayed everything you once held dear. What do I offer that you want so badly?"

"Power," Cyric snapped, a little too emphatically. "The power to shake empires one day."

The Black Lord's lips trembled in amusement. "You sound more like a rival than an ally, thief."

Cyric took a step toward Bane's throne. "The Realms are very large, Black Lord. When you have conquered them all, you will certainly be able to spare a small kingdom for me. After all, a true god cannot bother himself with the petty day-to-day operations of an entire world." The thief paused and took another step toward the God of Strife. "Give me a kingdom to run."

The Black Lord was stunned. "You have a gifted tongue, Cyric. Perhaps I should not waste such skills by slaughtering you where you stand, though that would be amusing." Bane gestured for the sorceress to draw near. She had backed herself into a corner, near the door. "Have Durrock released from his torments and brought before me. We are going to give the thief a chance to hang himself."

Tarana bowed and raced from the chamber.

When she was gone, Bane walked to the thief's side. "Now that my insane assistant has scampered away, is there anything about the mage you have not told me?"

A name flashed into Cyric's mind. Midnight's true name. The words were poised on the end of his tongue, but he drew them back. With that information, the Black Lord could lay claim to the soul of the mage in an instant, and Cyric wasn't sure that that would be at all acceptable. Not yet, anyway.

"No," Cyric said firmly, looking up into the god's eyes. "There is nothing else."

The door to the chamber opened, and Durrock was brought before the Black Lord in chains. Cyric flinched as he stared at the assassin's disfigured face. Then he realized that the burn marks were very old. Only a few of the scars that lined his body had been inflicted recently.

"I am in a forgiving mood this day, Durrock. I'm sure it won't last," Bane told the assassin then he returned to his throne. "I have a task for you, assassin. You will travel to Tantras with this thief and spy on his former allies. You know them quite well, since you escorted them into Scardale."

Durrock stiffened and bowed his head. Before the scarred assassin looked to the ground, Cyric saw an intense hatred flash in Durrock's eves.

Bane continued. "As I told you before, I do not want the mage killed. The cleric is of no consequence. As for the fighter, Kelemvor Lyonsbane, I want his head adorning a gate on this building as soon as possible. Have I made myself perfectly clear?" Bane asked sharply.

"You have, Lord Bane," Durrock answered, his voice a growl.

"You have a question?" Bane said when Cyric didn't answer quickly.

The thief nodded, glanced at Durrock then looked back at Bane. "What if they discover the location of the… artifact we spoke of? What if they try to take it from Tantras?"

Bane frowned and gripped his throne tightly. "Then, Cyric, they will all have to die."

It had been two days since the heroes left the Port of Scardale in the stolen galley. At night, a glowing spot on the horizon had marked the location of the city the Queen of the Night journeyed toward. The cause of the unearthly light couldn't be explained, but as the travelers drew closer to the city, the illumination grew brighter. Other than this strange light, the journey across the Dragon Reach was uneventful. The slaves prowled the upper decks in shifts, luxuriating in the feel of the warm sun upon their faces. Adon, as usual, kept to himself. Midnight divided her time between long hours with her spellbook and wonderful, tender moments of love with Kelemvor.

After the escape from Scardale, the fighter had been more relaxed than Midnight had ever seen him, though he did have occasional bouts of worry that the curse had not been lifted for good. Although she was happy, too, the mage found herself wondering if Kelemvor would be happier going back to the adventuring life, perhaps even sailing with Bjorn and his crew. She wondered, too, if the fighter desired to follow that course rather than put himself at risk in Tantras. Soon, the question started to plague Midnight. Similar circumstances had driven a wedge between the lovers before, in Shadowdale, and she did not want history to repeat itself.

Finally she confronted Kelemvor as they stood near the bow, looking out at waves ahead and the dark craggy shoreline that they were fast approaching. It was a few hours after morningfeast.

"I am going with you," Kelemvor told her simply. "I have no destiny to fulfill, other than remaining at your side." After a moment, he looked at the mage, a serious look on his face. "You, on the other hand, seem to have a grand destiny, a path laid out for you by the gods themselves."

"But isn't being dragged along in my wake, following me as I follow my destiny, just another curse, Kel?" Midnight asked somberly. "You'll have less control of your life than you did before."

The fighter took her in his arms and kissed her.

"I love you," Midnight said softly, the words escaping her lips before she even realized what she was about to say.

"And I you," Kelemvor whispered and kissed her again. The lovers stood in each other's arms for a moment. "It won't be long before we land," the green-eyed fighter sighed at last. "We should alert Adon." The lovers walked off, arm-in-arm.

Ten minutes later, Midnight and Kelemvor found Adon on the deck. Bjorn and Liane joined them. Tantras loomed in the distance.

"It's not as big as Scardale, but it's not that much different," Bjorn told the heroes. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather go to the Living City?"

"We have business in Tantras," Adon said, the light in his eyes darkening as he spoke.

An hour later, the Queen of the Night entered Tantras harbor. The tip of a huge ridge hooked into the Dragon Reach, forming a natural breakwall, and the ship sailed toward a gap in the southern part of the wall. Massive catapults guarded the harbor from positions along the rocky inner wall. The harbor was filled to overflowing with ships, and watchmen signaled the Queen of the Night to fly its color.

"Full stop," Bjorn ordered then turned to the heroes. ''We don't have any colors to fly, so we can't move any closer. You can use a rowboat to get to shore. They won't bother with us if we drop you then move off."

"Fair enough," Kelemvor agreed and slapped the captain on the back. Each of the heroes was given well-stocked travel bags, and their purses were filled with gold from the Zhentish ship's stores, compliments of Bjorn and the crew. Then the heroes climbed down the rope ladder into a row-boat. Midnight seemed nervous as she settled onto the small boat, and she stared toward land whenever possible. Kelemvor recalled her many near-fatal accidents on the Ashaba and covered her hand with his own.

"I'll row," Adon said flatly, leaving the lovers to themselves. The cleric released the lines holding the boat in place then looked up at the Queen of the Night to see the captain waving farewell. Adon started to move the small boat toward Tantras.

"If we had stayed with Bjorn, it could have been a fresh beginning for us all," Midnight said as she watched the stolen galley move away.

"I doubt it," Kelemvor replied. "We'd be fighting in a week in the close quarters of a ship, at each other's throats in a month."

"You think so little of our relationship?" Midnight asked, genuinely surprised.

"Not at all," the fighter said as he placed his arm around her waist. "But we both need the hint of danger in the air and open spaces to roam, don't we? Makes life a bit more exciting."

Midnight laughed a small, sharp, bitter laugh. "I've talked to gods and seen them destroyed, been put on trial for the murder of the Dales' most powerful mage, and sentenced to death. I was nearly drowned in the Ashaba, and I've been hunted like a dog by the soldiers of a mad god. Boredom would not be unwelcome at this point, destiny or no."

As the boat came within a hundred yards of the port, watchmen pointed the heroes to a small bay near the north end of the harbor. A small delegation of men, including two soldiers armed with swords and crossbows who wore the symbol of Torm — a metal gauntlet — met the heroes as they climbed from the ship and secured it to its moorings.

"Please state your business," a middle-aged man at the head of the delegation asked them, a bored expression on his face.

Midnight explained all they had been through in Scardale although she left out their true purpose for journeying to Tantras.

"If you've made an enemy of the Black Lord, then you've made an ally of all of Tantras. My name's Faulkner," the middle-aged man told them happily.

As he stepped onto the dock, Kelemvor turned to Faulkner and asked, "What causes that odd light in the sky at night around here? We could see it from our ship when we were just halfway across the Dragon Reach!"

"Night?" Faulkner asked and snorted. "Night doesn't come to Tantras anymore. Not since the time of Arrival, when Lord Torm, the God of Loyalty, revealed himself to us."

"No night? It must be confusing," Kelemvor muttered.

"Tantras is the city of eternal light," Faulkner added and shrugged. "Our god sets the hours of the day for us; he puts loyalty in our hearts and reason in our heads. There is nothing confusing about it."

Midnight realized that Adon was trembling slightly. Whether it was fear or rage that had been locked within the scarred young man, his emotions had been stirred by Faulkner's words. Then the cleric turned and walked from the delegation in silence.

"You must excuse Adon," Midnight told them desperately, her fear of insulting the soldiers evident in her voice. One of the other members of the delegation stepped forward.

"There's no need to worry," a young soldier named Sian said. He was a younger man, with thin black eyebrows and curly, black hair. "It's rather obvious your friend was a cleric. How long has it been since he lost the way?"

As they slowly followed Adon's path along the dock, Midnight explained how Adon had been scarred at the hands of the Gond worshipers in Tilverton, how he had lost his faith in himself and the Goddess of Beauty, whom he had worshiped most of his young life.

Sian nodded. "Many have lost their faith now that the gods walk in Faerun instead of the Planes. Perhaps your friend will find the peace he so requires in our fair city."

Midnight felt Elminster's sphere of detection resting against her back, through her backpack. "I'm afraid we won't have much time for rest," the mage said in a low voice as she turned and walked with Kelemvor and the delegation to the main buildings of the Port of Tantras. Adon was waiting with the watchmen when they got there.

In the next few hours, the heroes purchased fresh clothing and were given a brief description of the city's layout. Tantras, like most cities, was protected by a wall. In this case, the wall encompassed the vast port city, stretching in a winding path to the rocky shore. A series of towers lined the northern ridge, where the Citadel of Tantras was located. The Temple of Torm — the focus of the city ever since the god himself arrived there — was located in the northern section of town, and most of the streets that led to it were on a sharp incline. A huge bell tower lay at the southern end of the city, with a military complex close by, making the area off limits to civilians. There were several abandoned temples in the area, and a shrine to Mystra in the far south, near the bell tower.

"Other than these landmarks, Tantras is quite unremarkable," Sian concluded.

"Not completely unremarkable," Adon noted, his voice completely flat. "It looks as if you're preparing for war."

Sian narrowed his eyes and stared at the cleric for a moment. "You've just come from Scardale, haven't you? We've had several reports that confirm your description of the city's condition. If Zhentil Keep and Lord Bane are trying to annex new territories and expand their evil empire, what makes you think they'll settle for controlling only half of the Dragon Reach?"

"It was just an observation," Adon replied coldly. "Besides, I would have expected Torm to protect you."

"The city wasn't built with the idea of a resident deity," Sian said. "Torm's arrival is fairly recent. The presence of our god should be a deterrent to any enemy, but the people are prepared to fight for themselves anyway."

"I notice a number of refugee camps in the area," Midnight noted, changing the subject as quickly as she could.

"The chaos in the Realms has driven some of our neighbors to seek the protection of our city," Sian replied. "Others have fled south to Ravens Bluff or north to Calaunt. Hlintar has been practically deserted since an unnatural windstorm tore through the town and unearthed the graves of a few thousand of the town's former residents. The skeletons came to life, and now the dead rule the city."

Ten minutes later, the heroes were alone on an avenue that paralleled the harbor then stretched off toward the business district to the south. A wandering band of mimes and showmen passed the heroes and performed snippets of a half dozen different stories that ranged from bawdy, ribald comedy, to dark tragedy. The heroes tried to ignore the performers, but they had to part with a few gold pieces before the artists left them alone.

Merchants also lined the street, hawking their wares at the tops of their lungs. From the looks of many of the tradesmen, the chaos in the Realms was affecting business for the worst. Kelemvor simply browsed, though, and Midnight found a new braid for her hair. Adon wandered to an outdoor eatery.

The cleric was sampling an odd-looking combination of bread, filleted meat, and a tangy red sauce topped with ground black peppers. "Delicious," the cleric told the vender, then passed the wooden bowl on to Kelemvor, who also sampled the food.

"There's an inn ten blocks from here that posted a vacancy sign this morning," the vender told the heroes. "You should get there before all the rooms are taken."

The cleric paid for the food and thanked the vender for the information. Then the heroes went in search of the inn. After becoming lost three times in the winding city streets and receiving directions that only led them deeper into the twisted city center, the heroes found the Lazy Moon Inn. As they entered, a young man wearing a red frock with gold trim appeared before the heroes.

"How long will you be staying?" the boy asked, his voice cold and efficient.

"We don't know yet, but this should cover everything," Kelemvor said gruffly and slapped a few coins into the boy's hand. "We'll take two rooms," the fighter added. "At least until the end of the week."

The inn was of a simplistic design, with a large taproom, kitchen, and storeroom on the ground floor, and guest rooms on the upper two floors. A shield bearing the symbol of Torm lay on its side in the corner, next to the boy.

The young man insisted on carrying the heroes' travel bags, although he was clearly struggling to keep his balance as he led Kelemvor, Midnight, and Adon up a wooden, spiral stairway that led to the third floor of the inn. After dismissing the boy and checking over their rooms, the heroes met in the taproom. It was well before eveningfeast, so few other people were present.

"Here we are," Kelemvor said. "Tantras." A deep breath escaped the fighter. "Midnight, how will we recognize this tablet of yours? Better still, what are we going to do with it once we find it?"

"If we find it," Adon said darkly, drumming his fingers nervously on the greasy, unwashed table.

"We will find it," Midnight noted firmly, turning to look at the cleric. "The sphere of detection Lhaeo gave us will shatter when it's near an object of great magical power, such as the missing Tablets of Fate." The mage paused and turned to Kelemvor. "As to their appearance, Mystra's final message to me at Castle Kilgrave contained an image of the tablets. They are made of clay and stand less than two feet high. Fiery blue-white runes line their surfaces. They radiate powerful magic."

"But magic is unreliable," Kelemvor grumbled, waving for the barmaid to bring him an ale. "Who's to say this sphere of yours is even going to work? And where will we look? We can't cover every square inch of this city on our own. It's far too large." The green-eyed fighter scowled and looked away from his friends. "Besides, we have to assume that Bane will send agents to find us. His people might even move the tablet before we can find it."

Midnight ran her hands over her face and looked to the open doorway. The perfect sunlight from without had not changed since their arrival. "If we are to believe the men who greeted us at the dock, we'll be able to search in daylight. That, at least, will work against many of Bane's agents."

The barmaid brought the fighter's ale, and the heroes were silent until the pretty girl left them. As soon as she was out of earshot, though, Kelemvor pounded the table with his fist and hissed, "We can't go completely without sleep. Do you want to leave yourself open to attack because you're too tired to properly defend yourself? We need a better plan than just searching the city at random until we find the damned tablet."

"Then what do you suggest?" Midnight snapped, the weariness in her soul bleeding through to darken the tone of her words.

The fighter sighed and closed his eyes. "First, we should split up," Kelemvor said. "We can cover far more ground that way."

The mage shook her head. "We have only one object capable of locating the tablet. If I take the sphere, what can you two possibly hope to accomplish on your own?"

Kelemvor ignored the edge in Midnight's voice and tried to calm himself. "I tried to get Bane to tell me where the Tablet of Fate was hidden. He wouldn't tell me directly, but he did say something about 'having faith.' I didn't make anything of the remark at the time, but it could be an important clue."

A thought shot into Adon's mind, and the cleric smiled. "The temples," he said simply. "Bane could have been plating off the word 'faith.' Not unusual for a god these days." Adon ran his hand over his scar. "And Faulkner said there were a number of deserted temples in the city. The Tablet of Fate could be hidden in one of them."

"Well, that's a start anyway," Midnight told Adon, then turned to the fighter. "As to your other question, Kel, there's only one thing we can do with the Tablet of Fate when we find it. Elminster explained that there are Celestial Stairways — paths to the Planes — scattered throughout Faerun. Only gods or mages of Elminster's class can see them and touch them. A mortal can walk through one of the stairways and not even know it's there."

Midnight paused and considered her next statement carefully. "I've seen two Celestial Stairways, and I think we should bring the Tablet of Fate to one of these paths and give it to Helm. But first, one of us must gain an audience with Torm. He'll know where the closest stairway can be found." The mage paused again and put her hand on Adon's shoulder. "This should be your task. As an experienced cleric — "

Adon rose from the table, his chair falling away behind him. "I will not!" he shouted, and the few patrons in the taproom turned to stare at him. "I cannot speak with a god!"

A few murmurs ran through the room, and Midnight hardened her heart to the sight of the frightened, childlike cleric. "You must," the raven-haired mage said at last. "Kelemvor is needed to look for safe passage for us, so we can leave Tantras quickly — once we find the tablet."

The fighter took a swig of ale. "Aye," he grumbled. "We must assume the Celestial Stairway will be somewhere far from this city. If it's not, all well and good. But if it is, we must be prepared."

The cleric's hands were trembling, and his flesh had gone pale. When he saw the inn's patrons staring at him, though, Adon picked up his chair and seated himself at the table once more.

"I intend to return the Tablet of Fate to the Planes," Midnight said with a finality that frightened Kelemvor, though he couldn't tell why. "It's the only chance we have of ending the madness that has infected Faerun. As for our immediate plans, we should start the search immediately, and meet back here in two days."

"There's only one thing you're overlooking," Adon noted softly, his hands covering his face as he spoke in a low, trembling voice.

"What's that?" Midnight asked.

"There are two Tablets of Fate," Adon answered bitterly. "What happens when you stand before the God of Guardians with only one of them and he demands to know what you've done with the other one?"

"I'll tell him the truth," Midnight said flatly. "Helm has no reason to harm me."

Adon chuckled a strained, nervous laugh. "Strange," the scarred cleric commented. "I remember Mystra trying to do the same thing you propose… before Helm tore her, limb from limb, that is." Adon rose from the table and left his companions to ponder the observation alone in his room.

Eventually, though, Midnight and Kelemvor left the table to return to their rooms. The heroes had just reached the stairs, when a white-bearded minstrel carrying a harp entered the Lazy Moon and approached the bar.

"We do not perform charity work," the innkeeper growled with a voice that reeked of snobbery. "If free lodgings are what you seek, I would advise the local poorhouse."

The heroes turned away and walked up the stairs, and the minstrel watched them until they had moved from sight. Only then did the white-bearded man turn his attentions to the innkeeper.

"I have money, and I have very little patience," the minstrel snapped as he opened his hand and displayed a fistful of gold pieces.

"How long will you be staying?" the innkeeper asked politely, his back straightening, his tone instantly changing.

The minstrel frowned deeply. "I don't need lodgings. I need information. What can you tell me about the couple that just went upstairs?"

The innkeeper looked around to make sure that no one was listening. "That depends on what it's worth to you, "he whispered slyly.

"It's worth a great deal," the minstrel said as he shook his fistful of gold pieces and stared at the stairway, just where the heroes had stood. The smile faded from the minstrel's face. "More than you could ever imagine."

Fingers greedily kneading the air, the innkeeper grinned "I have a great imagination."

"Then tell me everything," the minstrel said quietly as he handed the gold to the innkeeper. "For there is little time, and I have much to learn…"