Tantras

XII

Outside the Lazy Moon Inn, the heroes said their farewells. Midnight kissed Kelemvor for the fifth and final time then brushed the hair from his face. His strong, proud features were much more relaxed these days, now that the curse had been removed. Today, however, a shadow of worry and doubt had fallen upon him.

"Perhaps we should stay together after all," Kelemvor told the mage. "I don't like the idea of you risking your life — "

The mage placed her fingers to Kelemvor's lips then calmly noted, "We're all at risk. The best chance we have is to get what we came for and move on quickly. You know that we can cover more ground and accomplish our task faster this way."

The fighter covered the mage's hand with his own. "Aye," he grumbled, and kissed her fingers. "Be careful."

"You're telling me to take care?" Midnight asked sarcastically and patted the side of the fighter's face as she said goodbye to Adon and left the Lazy Moon Inn. She traveled south for two blocks until she came to a one-story, gray stone building with no visible windows. A sign had been placed above the ragged doorway, and it read, "The House of Meager Living."

The mage pushed at the partially open door, but it wouldn't open. At first she thought the door was simply stuck, then, through the door, she saw a man's arm fall to the floor. There was a soft moan from inside the building and Midnight pushed harder at the door. The sound of a body sliding across the floor accompanied her efforts. Once the door was open far enough, Midnight slipped inside the dark building.

The interior of the House of Meager Living was lit by a handful of small torches set in metal braces attached to the main support beams. A dozen metal beds bereft of any covering were scattered throughout the room, and well over seventy men, women, and children crowded the single room that took up most of the building's few hundred square feet. Volunteers moved among the poor, the homeless, and the sick, bringing food from an open kitchen at the rear.

Midnight looked down and saw the man who had been lying near the door. He was in his late forties, and he wore a tunic that might have once belonged to a guardsman, save that there were now holes where any official markings might have been. Sandals made from worn strips of leather hung on his feet, and his hands were pressed tightly to his chest.

"Can I help you?" Midnight asked softly as she took a step toward the man and bent down. Suddenly the man struck out, his movement surprisingly quick. Midnight fell back, avoiding the blow, and realized that the man held a large, rusted spike in his hand. The mage scrambled backward, moving out of the derelict's range. But he didn't try to strike her again. He merely hugged the spike to his chest and stared at the floor.

Midnight felt hands grip her arms then she was dragged to her feet. The mage turned to face a middle-aged woman and a boy who might have been her son. Both were dressed in the same clean, white clothes as the other volunteers.

"What's your business here?" the woman asked gruffly, folding her arms across her chest.

"I needed a guide to take me around the city," Midnight explained as she got to her feet. "I thought perhaps — "

"You thought you'd get some cheap labor," the woman snapped. "The government has an office for hirelings on Hillier Way. You'd best go there."

Midnight frowned at the woman. "I thought I could find some resident of the city who knew its lore and its customs better than some bored government worker." She paused and pointed toward the roomful of indigents. "And I was trying to help."

"Do you want to start a riot in here?" the woman hissed softly. "If you offer gold here, they'll kill each other for it. Be off with you."

"Wait! I'll do it," the young man said as Midnight turned to leave. "I work for the city government when I'm not here. They take a lot of what I earn, though. You think we can have an agreement just between the two of us?"

"That would be fine," Midnight answered, looking at the excited boy through narrowed eyes. "Just as long as part of the arrangement is that you don't chew my ear with a lot of questions along the way."

"Well," the boy said in mock outrage, his eyes wide. He'd lived for no more than sixteen winters, but he was tall and strong, with thick, black hair that curled at his shoulders. "Privacy, eh? I have no problem with that, as long as the price is agreeable."

Midnight smiled, and the boy turned to the middle-aged woman at his side. "Can you spare me, mother?" he asked, practically panting with enthusiasm.

"Spare you? Would that I never had you," she snapped. "Begone and good riddance. If any of the city's men come by looking for you, I'll tell them you're busy visiting with your crazed aunt from the family's bad side."

A few minutes later, Midnight and the boy were on the street. "By the way," the boy said brightly, "my name is Quillian. You didn't tell me yours."

"That's true," Midnight answered flatly.

Quillian whistled. "Well, if you're not going to tell me your name, will it be all right if I call you 'milady?"

Midnight sighed. "Under the circumstances, yes. Just remember our agreement. I'll ask all the questions."

One side of the boy's mouth curled up in a wicked smile. "I bet you're a thief, come to rob our city blind."

Midnight stopped and stared at the black-haired boy. She was obviously angry.

"I'm just joking," Quillian said quickly, holding his hand up to stop the mage from admonishing him. "Still," he added after they had started walking again, "if you were a thief, I wouldn't mind helping you. This city's robbed me blind all my life."

Midnight shook her head. "You're a bit young to be that jaded."

"Age has nothing to do with it," Quillian noted bitterly. "You saw the conditions in the poorhouse. If my father hadn't died a war hero and left a decent pension for us, my mother and I would be residents in that nasty hole, not just volunteers."

The mage imagined Quillian dressed in a pauper's rags, the spark in his eyes drowned by hunger and want. The mage frowned and pushed the thoughts from her mind. "I'm not a thief, but I'll pay you well. Just do your job and there'll be no problems between us."

Quillian smiled and brushed a stray piece of hair from his eyes. "Where do you want to start?" he asked.

"How about the city's temples," Midnight answered as nonchalantly as possible. "Any place of worship that you know about."

"That's easy enough," Quillian said. "Let's start with the Temple of Torm. That's just — "

"I believe I can find that one without a guide," the mage told the boy as she gestured toward the beautiful spires to the north.

A look of embarrassment crossed Quillian's face. "Reasonable point," the dark-haired lad said sheepishly. "Let's head toward the market, then. It's nearby and there used to be a small house of worship there."

The two walked in silence for a little while. As Midnight and Quillian got closer to the market, the crowds grew in size. Soon the mage could smell food cooking and hear the droves of people haggling about prices and the merchants yelling to attract customers.

"Up ahead, on the right, there's a butcher shop," Quillian noted as they entered a crowded square. "The building used to be a temple to Waukeen, the Goddess of Trade. Are you familiar with Liberty's Maiden?"

Midnight shrugged. "Vaguely. I remember something about a golden-haired woman with lions at her feet.''

"That's how they say she appears when she walks among us. I haven't seen her in town," the boy said sarcastically, "so I couldn't tell you if that's true or not. Tantras was blessed with Lord Torm instead."

The mage found the boy's sarcasm surprising, especially compared to the enthusiasm about Torm's presence she'd heard from the watchmen at the dock. "Aren't you a follower of Torm?" Midnight asked.

"Not usually. But I can be when it's necessary," Quillian said.

I'd best change the subject, Midnight decided, noting the anger in Quillian's voice when he mentioned the God of Duty's name. "What can you tell me about Waukeen's temple?" the mage asked.

"There were statues of Waukeen and her lions in front of the place. The Tormites purchased one of the lions to decorate their new temple. I don't know what happened to the other statues or the rest of the fixtures."

The pair crossed the busy square. Midnight stopped in front of the butcher shop, waiting for the crowd to thin out a bit before she entered the busy establishment. She turned to Quillian and put her hand on his shoulder. "I hope that the money I'm paying you will make you less fickle about your service to me than you are about your devotion to the gods."

Before the boy could answer, a voice called out behind the mage. "Fickle? That's not a word you hear very often in Tantras these days. Not since the God of Duty moved in!"

The mage turned and saw an old man with a shock of white hair and a scraggly white beard. He was carrying a small harp, and he brushed his hand across its strings, bringing a flow of beautiful notes that pierced the sounds of the crowd.

"Fickle," the old man repeated. "The word reminds me of a limerick I picked up in Waterdeep. Would you care to hear it? It's of great significance, I assure you."

Midnight stared at the minstrel, examining his features closely. She was sure that he looked like someone she'd met before.

The minstrel stared back at her for a moment then asked, "Are you feeling well? Do you need a physician? Or would the young lady prefer an epic ballad or a sweet tale of romance to sooth her frazzled nerves?" The minstrel's voice was lilting and sweet.

The mage shook her head. "My apologies," she said softly as she shook her head. "For a moment you reminded me of someone."

The minstrel ran a hand through his hair then smiled. "Oh? Fancy that," the old man cackled. He leaned close to Midnight and whispered, "A little secret for you. All old beggars look the same to you younger types."

Suddenly the old man's eyes widened in surprise. "To your left, pretty one!" he cried and pointed to her waist with a bony finger.

Looking away from the minstrel for just an instant, Midnight saw a hand reaching with practiced skill for her money purse. Her left hand reached the purse at the same moment as the hand of the pickpocket, while her right hand balled into a fist. The mage punched the would-be thief in the face.

The yellow-bearded criminal's arms pinwheeled madly as he stumbled into a pair of elderly women and lost his balance. Midnight moved toward the cowering cutpurse, and Quillian leaped on the man.

The minstrel, on the other hand, simply stood by quietly and watched.

"This is not your day, rogue!" Quillian cried as he planted his knee in the thief's back and pushed him onto his stomach. Grabbing both of the pickpocket's hands, the black-haired boy pinned them firmly in place behind the man's back. He moved close to the thief's ear and hissed, "Be still unless you want to end up a cripple!"

The fight went out of the thief as a group of locals gathered around Quillian, the yellow-bearded man, and Midnight. The merchants and peasants hurled insults and a few rotten vegetables at the cutpurse. Then a burly man with a red face and short, gray-shot black hair — the butcher who owned the renovated temple — made his way through the crowd, carrying a blood-drenched axe.

"Well, if it isn't Quillian Dencery," the butcher shouted, genuinely surprised. "What have you brought me today, boy?"

"See for yourself," Quillian said as he fished into the sash at the thief's waist and pulled out three money purses.

The butcher raised his axe in his right hand. "Could this be the thief that has been harassing my customers for the last two weeks?" The butcher grabbed a handful of the man's hair with his left then pulled sharply. The thief gasped and gritted his teeth as he was forced to look into the butcher's sunburned face. "Do you know how much business you've cost me? My loyal customers are frightened to shop here, and they've been giving their business to that cutthroat, Loyan Trey, in the south end of town."

"Fine!" the thief sputtered. "Let me go and I'll work his shop. Then your customers will return!"

The butcher shook his head. "I don't think so." He looked to Quillian. "Boy, spread his right hand flat so we can chop it off. That'll teach him a lesson."

"Please!" the thief begged. "You mustn't! I'll give the money back. I won't ever come here again!"

"Hah!" the butcher shouted as the thief's hand was forced to the ground, fingers clenched tight. "Your type would say anything to save your own skin. Thieves are all alike." The butcher hefted the axe and the crowd gasped, almost as one. "Now keep still so I can get this over with and get back to business. I promise it'll be quick and clean. I can't promise that you won't feel anything, though."

"Wait!" Midnight cried, lunging toward the butcher.

From the crowd, the minstrel watched with growing interest. The butcher's hand had risen into the air, the bright sunlight glinting off his axe. The blade hung above the thief's wrist, as if it were suspended by a fragile thread.

"You were the one he wanted to steal from," the butcher growled, relaxing slightly. "Don't you want justice?"

The mage stood beside the butcher and whispered, "Look around you. If you're so worried about your business, then stop and think about what you're about to do. Do you really want all these fine gentlemen and ladies to remember your shop as the place they saw you maim a thief?" The mage saw the anger go out of the butcher's face, only to be replaced by concern. "Every time they think of you, that's what they'll remember. Would they think you a good man, then? An honest man?"

The butcher's shoulders dropped as he surveyed the faces in the crowd. Some were expectant and excited. Most were horrified. Practically unnoticed by all, the minstrel was grinning a wicked grin as he watched the mage. But the butcher realized that the mage was right: he'd lose everything if he harmed the thief. "But he'll just do it again," the butcher growled as he lowered the axe.

"Of course he will," Midnight told the red-faced man. "That's how he makes his living. But that doesn't mean he'll ever be stupid enough to come near your establishment again. If he has any brains, he'll even put the word out that your shop is strictly off limits to all his brethren." The raven-haired mage turned to the thief. "What do you say to that?"

"I will! I'll do everything the lady said!" the yellow-bearded man sputtered.

"Then be off with you," the butcher growled and signaled Quillian to release the thief. "And tell everyone you know in the Thieves' Guild that Beardmere's is off limits!"

The minstrel appeared before Midnight. "Fine lady, I will write a song in honor of your wisdom and courage." And before Midnight could respond, the minstrel turned and vanished into the crowd.

Business quickly returned to normal in the marketplace, and the butcher walked to Midnight's side. "It seems I owe you for your assistance," he told the mage. "How about a month's supply of Beardmere's finest meats?"

The mage smiled. "Thank you, but I'd accept something far less costly," Midnight replied politely. "I'm a scholar. I wish to know how this former temple to Waukeen became your butcher shop."

"Simple enough," Beardmere said. "The government sold me the building."

Surprise registered on the magic-user's face. That wasn't the answer she'd expected at all. Still, Midnight recovered from her surprise quickly and continued her questioning of the butcher. "Were there any artifacts or books left behind by the worshipers of Liberty's Maiden?"

"Ah," Beardmere said, convinced that he had finally pegged the inquisitive mage. "Are you a collector, as well?"

Midnight smiled when she saw Quillian hovering nearby, obviously listening to the conversation. "I am," the mage said, a little louder than needed. The black-haired boy blushed and turned away.

The butcher nodded and led Midnight and Quillian into the back of the former temple, through a few rooms that had been converted for storage and office space. They reached the top of a stairway, then Beardmere grabbed a torch and ushered the mage and her young guide into the basement.

A musty smell assaulted Midnight's senses as she stepped off the landing and found herself in a small, dirty room filled with abandoned items from the former temple. There were empty shipping crates scattered across the rough dirt floor, and waterlogged ledgers tossed here and there around the damp cellar.

"I sold quite a bit of what was left behind, you understand," Beardmere said, wiping a cobweb from his face. "But many of the items were of no value to anyone in the city. Of course, it would have been sacrilegious to destroy them, so I've kept them stored down here. Someone from the city tried to cart them off, but I wouldn't let him. Just wouldn't seem right, somehow."

Midnight pushed aside a crate and gasped as she found herself staring into the eyes of a beautiful, white-skinned woman. It took her a moment to realize this was the statue of Waukeen, the Goddess of Trade. One of the two golden lions that had once adorned her temple lay at her feet.

Withdrawing the sphere of detection from her travel bag, the mage held the magical item close to the statues. She had no reason to believe that Bane would hide the Tablet of Fate in its original form. In fact, the tablets were probably carefully disguised.

But when the sphere touched the statue, nothing happened. The mage methodically searched the entire basement, her heart thundering in anticipation. Each time she touched an item from the temple, though, the results were the same. The magical sphere of detection remained dark and intact.

Beardmere and Quillian watched Midnight as she moved around the basement. "See anything you like?" the butcher asked at last, his attention riveted on the amber sphere in the mage's hand.

Midnight's disappointment was evident in her voice as she put the sphere away. "I'm sorry, no."

Beardmere nodded. "What exactly are you looking for?"

The mage forced a smile. "I can't really say but I'll know it when I find it."

Midnight thanked Beardmere for his patience as she left the shop. Then the raven-haired mage and her guide took to the streets once more.

"What was that thing?" Quillian Dencery asked, trying to appear casual. "That yellowish orb you were waving around. Is it magic?"

"No questions," Midnight said firmly. She stopped walking and grabbed the black-haired boy's arm. "How many times do I have to tell you that it's better that you don't know anything? Where's our next stop?"

"It's almost time for eveningfeast. I thought we might stop off at the Dark Harvest Festhall to grab a bite — "

Midnight squeezed the young man's arm a little tighter. "Quillian, for what I'm paying you, I expect to be taken very seriously. I do not intend to wander aimlessly, visiting pubs instead of — "

The young man twisted free of Midnight's grasp. "For a scholar, you don't have much patience, do you?"

Midnight said nothing.

"I happen to know that worshipers of Bhaal, Lord of Murder, meet in the gaming rooms of the Dark Harvest almost nightly," Quillian snapped, rubbing his arm. "If you're looking for something specific — and I think you are — you should go there."

"Perhaps I misjudged you," Midnight noted warily, trying to keep the excitement from her voice. Bhaal was an ally of Myrkul, and Bane had stolen the Tablets with Myrkul's assistance. "The Dark Harvest it is."

The pair traveled south for three blocks, then headed east to the festhall. Midnight looked up toward the blinding face of the sun; its position hadn't changed since she first arrived in Tantras. Daylight had continued, as the watchmen at the harbor had warned her, twenty-four hours a day.

Turning her attentions to the festhall, the mage was not surprised to discover that the squat, one-story building had been painted black with blood-red trim. Agents of the Black Lord and worshipers of Bhaal, the God of Assassins, would find the Dark Harvest a welcome sight in this colorful merchant city.

But as Quillian grabbed the door to the tavern, Midnight realized how foolish she was being by entering a place frequented by the God of Strife's allies. "I've changed my mind," the raven-haired mage told her guide. "We'll find somewhere else to dine. We can always come back here for information later, if we're not successful anywhere else."

The young man shrugged and looked away. "Whatever you say, milady. We could head south and pass through the ruins of the Temple of Sune on our way to another place to eat."

At the mention of the Goddess of Beauty, Midnight thought of Adon. For the first time since she'd left the Lazy Moon, the mage was thankful that she had gone to search the temples without her friends.

Quillian quickly led Midnight through a few alleys. Within ten minutes they were at the ruined temple. "It burned to the ground a few weeks ago," the young man told the mage as they stood near the heaps of scorched timber that were once part of the house of worship. "Rumors say the clerics destroyed the place themselves, just to spite the Tormites. The Sunites left the city right after the 'accident'." Midnight walked through the wreckage with the sphere of detection and was disappointed once again. After a few minutes of fruitless searching, she turned to Quillian and said, "Why did the Sunites leave?"

"I really don't know," the dark-haired boy said. "But there may be a way to find out. In many circles, the Curran Inn is known as the Wagging Tongue. A few discreet inquiries and you should be able to learn what you want to know." Midnight shook her head. "Another inn? I suspect you're just taking me there so I can buy you eveningfeast." When Quillian shrugged, the mage smiled and said, "Very well. Let's go to the Wagging Tongue."

Quillian led the mage west, to a small inn several blocks from the harbor. The taproom of the inn was filled to capacity, and raucous laughter could be heard a full block away from the tavern. To get a position at the bar, Midnight had to push between a pair of off-duty guards who wore the gauntlet of Torm. Quillian stood waiting behind her.

Staring at the wiry, dark-skinned man behind the bar, the mage grinned. It had been a long time since the days when she had traveled on her own and frequented noisy, smelly inns like this one. And though she could remember all the points of "etiquette" that one used to be accepted in the company of crude, ill-mannered louts, Midnight felt strange about using it. She wanted to be able to ask her questions, receive the proper answers, and be on her way. That thought would have shocked her three months ago, when she still considered herself a "wild" adventuress.

As Midnight pondered that thought, the innkeeper placed his elbow on the bar and leaned in close to her. His foul breath and bloodshot eyes shocked her out of her musings. "Would it kill you to actually order something?" the man grumbled.

"That depends on what poisons you're trying to pass off as fine ales," Midnight remarked without flinching.

The man tilted his head slightly. "Afraid I'll get you so drunk that you'll fall prey to my charms?"

Though she quickly found that she hadn't lost any of her wit, Midnight soon tired of the little game. She would have ended it and simply asked for some information, but the mage knew that she wouldn't learn a thing if she didn't play along for a while, at least. "Under those circumstances, I'd have to be dead, not drunk."

"Or dead drunk!" one of the two guards flanking Midnight said with a slurred voice then broke into a fit of uncontrollable snickering. It look him a moment to realize no one else was laughing.

Midnight let a slight laugh escape her as she said, "Give me a double of whatever he's having. Then maybe you can tell me something."

"I can tell you plenty," the innkeeper grumbled as he took a large red bottle out from behind the bar. Both fighters mumbled in agreement.

"I'm sure you can," Midnight sighed. "But what I'm interested in is that burned-out building a few blocks away. I understand it used to be a temple to Sune. I'm curious as to why clerics of Sune would leave a city as beautiful as Tantras. Beauty is what they worship, after all."

The innkeeper laughed as he held the bottle close to his chest. "I remember that lot. They used to come in here with their fancy clothes and their fancy ways, talking like a bunch of damn poets all the time. I only let them stay 'cause they had money."

"It sounds like they had it pretty good," Midnight noted, wiping her hand across the greasy bar. "But I still don't understand why they left the city."

The innkeeper snorted. "I suppose it's hard to compete with a temple that's got its own resident god. Once Torm showed up, their attendance fell off and those worshipers who were still foolish enough to worship — "

Suddenly the pair of guards stood up and kicked their stools to the floor. All sound and activity in the inn stopped as the guards stood, glaring at the innkeeper. The guard to Midnight's right, who was wobbling from too much to drink, placed his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Midnight looked at the innkeeper and saw a cold, almost frightened expression cross his face. He took the bottle of liquor and poured its contents onto the floor. "It seems that bottle's empty," the innkeeper said when he was finished. "Is there anything else that interests you?"

"Only a well-cooked meal for my nephew and me," Midnight told the man.

The black-haired boy took that as a cue. "Quillian Dencery," the young man said winningly as he grabbed one of the guard's hands and shook it vigorously.

"Dencery," the man muttered absently. "I think I met your father once. Good man. Fine soldier. This his sister?"

"My aunt on my mother's side," Quillian said as he tapped his head and raised an eyebrow. "A scholar. You know the type."

The guard looked at Midnight, laughed, and turned away. Activity and sound resumed at the inn, and the mage and her guide were shown to a table. As they ordered their meal, Midnight kept a close watch on the guards, but neither of the men even glanced in her direction.

After they ate, they left the inn and Quillian took Midnight to a small, featureless, and deserted building, not far from the tavern. "The worshipers of Ilmater, God of Endurance used to meet here," the boy told the mage. "The city levied taxes on the church that the priests couldn't dream of paying. When they defaulted, the city guards put them in the poorhouse. Some even live in the House of Meager Living."

Midnight pictured the derelict who had attacked her with a spike in the poorhouse and shuddered. "What kind of taxes?" the mage asked quietly.

Quillian shrugged. "Once word got out that Torm was in the city, Tormites from all over Faerun flocked here, putting a ton of gold in the coffers of the church. Of course, the government took its share, too. After a while, the city told the worshipers of Ilmater to match the taxes paid by the Tormites or get out. You can guess what happened."

"How very odd," the mage noted as she turned to her guide. "In some places, the churches are exempt from taxation. Here, they're driven away by it." Midnight paused for a moment then recollected her thoughts. "How far are we from Mystra's shrine?" she asked at last.

"Not far at all," Quillian told her brightly. "It's down in the southern section of the city, near the garrisons."

After a long walk, Quillian led the mage up a low ridge to a small footpath that had nearly been worn away from neglect. The path, in turn, took the travelers right to the Shrine of Mystra.

The shrine was a simple stone arch, surrounded by a rough stone wall a few feet high, with entrances at regular intervals around its circumference. Midnight ordered Quillian to remain behind as she walked around the circle of stones, viewing the shrine from every angle. Then she passed into the circle and stood before the small, white statue of the Lady of Mysteries that rested under the center of the arch. Though she wanted to, Midnight found that she could not bring herself to kneel down and pray before testing the shrine with the sphere of detection. She ran from the circle of stones then stopped.

"You're not a child anymore," she whispered to herself, then took out the sphere and approached the shrine again. As she got close, the sphere vibrated very slightly.

A residue of spells that might have been cast years ago, Midnight thought. The raven-haired mage turned away from the shrine. A large bell tower in the distance caught her eye. "What's that?" she said to her guide, pointing to the tower.

"A place where children used to play," the boy told her, stifling a yawn. "Legend has it that the bell was made by the great mage, Aylen Attricus. He was one of the founders of Tantras. They say he was a thousand years old when he passed away, a century ago." The boy picked up a small rock and rolled it down the worn path.

"He forged the bell himself, and built the tower, stone by stone, with his own two hands," Quillian continued. "Then he used his magic to weave a spell preventing any mortal from ringing the bell. He inscribed some type of prophecy on the bell, but even the city's scholars can't decipher the code he used." The black-haired boy shrugged and stifled another yawn. "All I know is that the bell has been there for hundreds of years. They say it rang once and somehow saved the city, but I don't believe it."

"Why not?" Midnight asked.

"Because the only people around who still believe that are wizards, and wizards never tell the truth," the boy laughed. The mage frowned. "I want to see it," she said grimly.

A slight whistle escaped Quillian's lips as he tried to work out a plan. "It's in the Forbidden Area, where the army garrisons are laid out. The soldiers usually won't let just anyone through." He paused and smiled. "But they know me because of my father. You and I both have dark hair and deep skin. Maybe we can get in by playing aunt and nephew again."

"Then let's go," Midnight said.

"There's a problem," Quillian said flatly, his hand on Midnight's arm. "Morgan Lisemore, the commander who would normally give us access, is away from the city until late tomorrow. If I ask anyone else, there'll be a lot of questions, most of which you won't want to answer." As he finished speaking, the boy tried to stifle a third yawn, but failed.

Throwing her hands into the air, Midnight looked away from the young man. We're obviously not going to solve this now," she sighed. "You'd better get some rest. And try to get us a horse, for tomorrow. We'll cover more ground that way."

As Quillian turned and started toward home, Midnight put her hand on his shoulder and said, "Thank you for your help, nephew. Meet me at the Lazy Moon Inn before morningfeast."

"Aye, milady," the dark-haired boy said happily. "By the way, you'll want to buy a sleeping mask before you go to bed. If you're not used to it, the constant daylight here can make it difficult to sleep."

It was more than an hour's walk to the inn. Quillian bade the mage goodbye again then left her. There were no messages from Adon or Kelemvor in the room she shared with the fighter, so the mage tried to relax and sleep.

After nearly an hour of lying in bed, the sunshine causing her to think in the back of her mind that she should be getting up, Midnight dressed and found the innkeeper. The obsequious, smiling man, Faress by name, located a sleeping mask for the mage and parted with it for the price of a tankard of ale, a rather large sum for a piece of rough cloth with a string attached.

Before she went to sleep, Midnight tried to study her spellbook. When that endeavor failed, she sat down at a small desk in the corner of the room and wrote messages for Kelemvor and Adon. She retired then, and after sleeping fitfully, was startled awake by a pounding on her door.

"It's Quillian Dencery, milady," a voice on the other side of the door cried. "You've overslept."

"I'll be there in a moment," Midnight mumbled and dressed hurriedly. The mage and her guide soon resumed their journey, now on horseback, and spent the day visiting deserted temples and places of clandestine worship. Through it all, the sphere of detection never registered more than a slight tremor. At the end of the day, Midnight accompanied Quillian to the military outpost in the southernmost district of the city. There they found Morgan Lisemore, a tall, sandy-haired man who was easily old enough to be the guide's father.

"If it isn't Quillian Dencery," Morgan said ruefully, the listened to the boy's story. When Midnight's guide had finished his tale of addled aunts and research trips, the soldier sighed. "You know I hate to deny you anything, lad. But there are rules to be followed."

The young man shook his head and pointed to Midnight.

"She may be called back home at any moment, Morgan. This could be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for her."

Morgan looked up at the sky and sighed again.

"Very well. Go on," Morgan grumbled then motioned for his guards to let Midnight and her guide pass.

Midnight said nothing as she rode with Quillian to the bell tower nearly a half-mile in the distance. They passed a number of hastily erected barracks and were forced to detour twice to avoid groups of soldiers in the middle of training exercises. Soon, however, the Tower of Aylen Attricus stood before them.

The tower was a gray stone obelisk. Within the monument lay a winding stairway that led to a bright, silver bell. The bell itself stood exposed to the cool afternoon air through large windows on each side. Midnight felt an odd tingling sensation in her back as she gazed at the tower and prepared to dismount. The tingling felt like a thousand fingers capped with razor-sharp nails lightly tapping the mage's back. Midnight realized what was happening just as she got off the horse and her feet touched the ground.

"Look out!" Midnight yelled and threw the travel bag from her shoulder. Quillian leaped to the ground. The bag was glowing with a bright amber light as it landed twenty feet from the entrance to the tower. For an instant the bag seemed to be on fire, and then the sphere of detection exploded soundlessly. The tough canvas sack was shredded, and the stone doorway to the tower was seared black from the noiseless explosion.

Midnight walked over to Quillian. The boy was sitting up, but he scampered away from the raven-haired mage as she extended her hand.

"You didn't tell me you were one of them!" he cried and backed a little farther from Midnight.

"One of who?" Midnight asked irritably.

"You're a mage! Your stinking art could have gotten us both killed!" Quillian yelled and rose to his feet. "I knew I shouldn't have trusted you!"

The mage turned away from the dark-haired boy and looked at the tower. I can afford to lose a guide, she thought, but not the Tablet of Fate… and from the reaction of the sphere, it just might be nearby!

But the sphere was meant to explode when it came within range of any object of sufficient magical power, the mage recalled bitterly. It might have exploded because of the damned bell. She moved toward the doorway and Quillian cried out, "We have to leave! Someone might think you're trying to blow up the bell!"

"You leave," Midnight hissed without turning around. "I have to see what's inside the tower."

Entering the tower, Midnight was greeted by absolute silence. The sounds of the garrisons and the training exercises going on nearby, even the noise of the wind from the Dragon Reach, suddenly vanished. The mage looked through the door and could see Quillian moving his lips, shouting a warning, but she couldn't hear his voice. Turning from the boy, Midnight examined the interior of the tower and found it completely bare except for the winding stairway that led to the bell. She climbed to the top of the tower.

At the head of the perfectly carved, spotless stone steps, the mage gazed at the inscription on the bell. Sunlar, Midnight's teacher in Deepingdale, had insisted that Midnight make a study of ancient languages. The message was a confusing jumble of many tongues, but it reminded the magic-user of puzzles Sunlar had created for her years ago. And then, as she stared at the strange letters and words, a blue-white glow erupted from the inscription, and Midnight found she could decipher it quite easily. It read:

This bell was created to throw a shield of impenetrable mystical force over the city I helped to found. To protect my fairest creation from great harm.

Once, my beloved ally, the sorceress Cytheria, rang the bell and saved the city from the dire magics of a wizard I battled nearby. It took great courage to stay and protect our home, though she would have preferred to fight by my side. Now, only by the hand of a woman with power and heart such as my wife had, and only in the greatest time of need, will this bell ever sound again.

The mage pondered the message as she climbed down the Steps and walked out of the tower. The sounds of the day rushed to her ears the moment she walked through the doorway. Quillian was upon his horse, and he had led Midnight's mount to the tower.

"I put in a long day today and I expect to get paid," the dark-haired boy growled. "Now let's get out of here before we're caught."

"Lead on," Midnight said flatly as she mounted.

The mage and her guide rode back to the checkpoint where Morgan was waiting. He waved them through without a word, and the pair rode for over an hour before either spoke.

"Don't worry about me keeping quiet," Quillian grumbled without looking at Midnight. "I don't want to be associated with mages if I can avoid it." After a moment, he added, "I sense there are some hard times in your future, milady. Try not to drag any innocent bystanders down with you."

"I'll keep it in mind," Midnight told him, angry to be on the receiving end of a lecture from the boy. Although there was less than a decade between Quillian and the mage, she felt as if she had aged a hundred years since she called out to Mystra on Calantar's Way two months before. She had seen far too much in the last few weeks to be scolded by a child who had probably never been more than a hundred miles from Tantras in his entire life.

The riders came to the Lazy Moon Inn, and Midnight paid the amount that Quillian was due, along with a bonus for the hazards she had not warned him about in advance. The dark-haired boy rode away in silence, and Midnight entered the inn.

Once inside the room that she and Kelemvor shared, Midnight looked for messages from either of her allies. The cleric had not picked up her letter, but there was a message signed by a priest of Torm next to the door. It was a short note, meant simply to assure Midnight and Kelemvor that all was well with their friend.

The fighter, on the other hand, had been in the room, recently from the looks of things, and had taken the letter Midnight had left for him. In return, he left a scrap of paper with only three words hastily scrawled upon it.

Cyric is alive.

The parchment fell from Midnight's trembling hands and sailed to the floor, where it lay as the mage ran from the inn, her heart thundering with fear.