Tantras

XIV

Outside the Lazy Moon Inn, Adon watched as Kelemvor and Midnight said their farewells. The concern the lovers showed for one another was touching, if a little maudlin. Still, the cleric knew that searching the city alone was dangerous and they might never see one another again. But it was better that way. Midnight and Kelemvor could search for the tablet wherever they pleased, and Adon wouldn't slow them down.

"Adon," Midnight said, and the cleric snapped to attention. The mage smiled at him warmly. "Try not to worry. We're going to be fine."

"So you say," the cleric mumbled.

Midnight gripped the young man's arm tightly. "And stop feeling sorry for yourself," she whispered, then turned and walked away. Kelemvor stared at the mage as she headed down the street, while Adon made his way across the lane, then merged with the crowd.

The cleric expected his mission to the Temple of Torm to be a simple matter. Having visited the clergy of many different gods in his travels, Adon was familiar with the protocol for calling upon priests of rival denominations. Holding both hands side by side, palms facing up, thumbs stretched as far apart as possible, was almost universally accepted as a sign of peaceful intentions. By showing this sign and saying, "There is room for all," a cleric could expect to gain admittance to most temples quite easily.

But as the cleric of Sune passed through the Citadel of Tantras, he felt that gaining entrance to Torm's temple might not be so easy. People stared at him as he passed, then looked away and pretended that they hadn't noticed the young man. Others pointed at Adon and whispered amongst themselves. The number of guards Adon encountered increased as he moved farther toward the temple, too. He had the feeling that he was heading toward an armed camp, not a house of worship.

The spires of the citadel were impressive, but Adon expected their allure to pale beside the rebuilt Temple of Torm, a living god. He was stunned by the sight of the plain three-story building that had been surrounded by protective walls and a series of interlocking gates. Pairs of simple one-story towers, with covered walkways leading from one to another, served as gatehouses.

Warriors wearing the symbol of Torm waited outside each gatehouse. Adon approached the first pair of well-armed guards, performed the ritualistic greeting, and announced himself as a worshiper of Sune. Though it pained the young cleric to claim he still worshiped the Goddess of Beauty, he knew that he would be allowed into the temple more quickly if he appeared to be a visiting priest.

The warriors failed to answer the greeting in the customary manner. Instead, one guard ran off to alert his superiors then two more armed guards appeared, and Adon was taken into one of the gatehouses, where he was subjected to a series of interviews. Various clerics and members of the town government asked the scarred young man a wide variety of questions about everything from his hobbies as a boy to his opinions about various philosophical matters. Adon was as helpful as possible, but when he expressed his confusion at the odd treatment he was receiving, he received no explanation. Strangely, what Adon thought would be the most important question — his reason for visiting the temple — was never brought up.

"Why is this questioning necessary?" Adon demanded of the fifth interviewer, a bored civil servant who looked out at the cleric through dark, hooded eyes. It was now several hours after eveningfeast, and the cleric had begun to wish that he had forced himself to eat something before he left the Lazy Moon.

"Why do you worship Sune?" the bored man asked Adon for the fifth time, then looked down at a sheet of parchment that rested on the table before him.

"I'll answer no more questions until I receive some information in return," Adon said flatly, crossing his arms over his chest. The civil servant sighed, folded up his parchment, and shuffled out of the sparse, stone room. The scarred cleric heard a bolt slide into place on the other side of the door. With the door now locked and the small window in the cell filled with strong, iron bars, Adon knew that it would be futile to search for an escape route. So he waited.

It was almost six hours later that a cleric wearing the robes of Torm entered the chamber where Adon had been left to wait. Introducing himself, the scarred cleric performed the ritual of greeting and waited for a response.

"We have no temple to Sune in Tantras," the bald Tormite told the prisoner, ignoring Adon's downturned eyes and opened hands. "Lord Torm walks among us. He is all. Our god sets the hours of the day, the loyalty — "

"The loyalty in your heart, the reason in your head. I've heard it all before," Adon snapped, his calm facade splintering. He stood up and took a step toward the bald man. "I want to know why I have been subjected to this insulting test of endurance."

The Tormite narrowed his eyes, and his features turned cold and lifeless. "You have no business being in a temple dedicated to Torm, Adon of Sune. You will be shown out immediately."

As the bald man turned, Adon subdued his anger. "Wait!" the young cleric called. "I meant no insult."

The bald man turned back to face Adon, a sneer on his face. "You are not a practicing cleric. I've already been told that," the man growled. "You have no real business in any house of worship."

Adon felt his heart race with anger and confusion. He had mentioned nothing to the interviewers of his recent loss of faith.

The bald man must have read the confusion in Adon's eyes, for he growled, "The nature of the questions we have asked you allows us to make inferences with a very high degree of accuracy. You are as easy to read as any book in our library."

"What else do you know about me?" Adon asked, worry beginning to well up inside of him. If the Tormites had discovered anything about the Tablets of Fate from his answers, Midnight and Kelemvor might now be in danger.

The cleric of Torm walked to Adon and stood directly in front of him. "You are disillusioned. That scar on your face is recent. And you want something from us."

"I seek an audience with Lord Torm," Adon told the bald man, meeting the Tormite's look of disgust with one of quiet anger.

The bald cleric tried to hide his surprise at Adon's audacity, but he failed miserably. "That is hardly a request to be made lightly. Besides, why should the God of Loyalty see a faithless wretch such as you?"

"Why shouldn't he?" Adon asked, shrugging. "I have been witness to sights that only a god or goddess could interpret or appreciate."

The bald man raised one eyebrow. "Such as?"

Adon looked away. The cleric knew that he would have to choose his words carefully. "Tell the God of Duty that I have seen Lord Helm stand at the head of a Celestial Stairway. I have heard the guardian's warning to the fallen gods."

The bald man's lips curled hack in a snarl, and he raised his hand as if to strike Adon, then stopped. The Tormite paused for a moment then forced himself to smile weakly. "Since you have come to Torm with this knowledge, my superiors may wish to speak with you further." The bald man gently grabbed Adon's arm and led him from the room. "Come. We will find a place for you to sleep in the barracks outside the temple. It may be some time before my masters can find a moment to speak with you."

Adon rested that night on a warm cot inside the building outside the gate to the temple. The cots were usually reserved for guards who were stationed on call, but, on this night at least, there were more cots than guards. For a short time, Adon actually managed to sleep. The rest of the time he spent mulling over his relationship to the gods and forcing images of Elminster's final moments in the Temple of Lathander out of his mind.

During his periods of wakefulness, Adon strained to listen to the guards' conversations on the walkway outside the gate. If he concentrated, the young cleric could hear fragments of various discussions that went on outside his window. Most of the talk concerned women or drink, but a few statements caught Adon's attention.

"To have seen Lord Torm's face is enough. I understand there are those who have even touched his robes…,"one voice said in a reverent tone.

Adon felt a sickness in his heart. The voice had been so pitiful, so awestruck. Would he sound that way if Sune had appeared before him? At one time, perhaps, but certainly not now.

A few minutes later, two more figures paused beside the barracks. "Dangerous talk!" a woman said, her voice full of fear. "Don't let anyone hear you say that. Do you want to vanish like the others?"

Later still, another man said, "I've heard talk of a fringe group that worships Oghma, the God of Knowledge. I have their names and addresses. With Lord Torm's grace, by the end of the week — "

"Lord Torm does not need to be troubled with such matters, my friend!" another voice snapped. "Just give the information to me. I'll see that the situation is handled properly…"

Finally, just before the hour of dawn was announced, a man stopped directly outside Adon's window. "He must never find out," the gravel-voiced man grumbled. "It was all for him, all in his name." He paused. "But Lord Torm might not understand, since he has been removed from the world for so long. He must never know all that has occurred." Then the men were gone.

As dawn was announced, Adon suddenly realized that a priest had silently entered the barracks and stood no more than ten feet to the side of the cleric's cot. Rising from the cot, Adon gave the ritual greeting and felt relief flow through him when the priest returned the gesture. This Tormite was very tall, and his platinum hair was combed straight down, nearly touching his silver eyebrows. The priest's eyes were sky blue, and his smile was so warm that it instantly set Adon at ease.

Suddenly realizing that his hair was unbrushed, rather dirty, and probably sticking up in places, Adon tried to brush his locks into place with one hand. The priest looked on with amusement. Adon laughed and gave up.

"My clothes have been slept in, my hair is a mess, and I haven't eaten since yesterday," Adon said with a sigh. "I suppose I'm hardly what you expected as a cleric of Sune."

The priest put his hand on Adon's shoulder and guided the young cleric out of the small building, past the gatehouse, and onto the walkway leading to Torm's temple.

"Do not concern yourself, Adon of Sune," the priest murmured reassuringly. "We will not judge you by your appearance. As for morningfeast, I have arranged for a private meal to be delivered to my chambers. We will share this, and I will tell you everything that you need to know."

Adon and the platinum-haired priest entered the temple through a gate. A thousand stone gauntlets lined the doorway, and Adon felt uneasy as he brushed past one of them. It seemed to the faithless cleric that the stone hand might reach out and grab him, might prevent someone who didn't have faith in the God of Duty from entering his home. Of course, nothing happened.

The two men passed down a long corridor lined with oaken doors. Each door was adorned with a painted gauntlet, and sounds of chanting and worship drifted through each of the chamber doors.

Soon the corridor forked into two diagonal pathways that stretched for twenty feet in either direction. These smaller hallways ended in doorways. The priest turned to the left, followed the hallway to its end then opened the polished oaken door. It creaked open, revealing a simple chamber. A straw mattress dominated the cell's floor, and devotional paintings of the God of Duty covered the walls.

The meal that the platinum-haired priest had promised was there, and Adon quickly sat on the floor. A plate of warm bread, along with cheese and fresh fruit, lay on a platter. As the Tormite stood silently over him, the scarred cleric started to eat hungrily. Noticing that the priest was staring, Adon put down his food and waited as the man uttered a prayer over the meal.

Adon started to eat again, and the priest sat down across from him. The platinum-haired man's first words caused the cleric to choke.

"Will you do penance for not blessing your meal?" the Tormite asked softly.

Adon's face turned white, and he got a small piece of bread caught in his throat. He coughed several times then shook his head vigorously.

The priest leaned forward. "So it's true, then, Adon, that you are no longer a cleric."

Adon began to feel ill as he realized that this was just another interrogation session. He put the chunk of bread he was eating back on his plate.

The platinum-haired man frowned. "A cleric is nothing without belief, and yours is very weak." He paused and studied Adon's eyes. "Have you come here seeking guidance? Is that why you made up that wild story about delivering a message to Lord Torm?" the priest asked sadly.

"Perhaps," Adon whispered. He tried to force a look of shame onto his face to hide his growing fear.

The priest, a broad smile covering his face, clutched Adon's shoulders. "You have just taken the first step toward accepting Lord Torm, the God of Duty. Today you will be allowed to wander the temple freely. You may enter any door marked with the symbol of Torm. All others are off limits to you… for now." The Tormite paused, and the smile left his face. "There are serious penalties if you ignore these warnings. I'm sure you understand."

The priest allowed his perfect smile to return, but now Adon saw that expression as threatening somehow.

The scarred cleric cleared his throat and tried to return the platinum-haired man's smile but failed. "You haven't told me your name," Adon said.

"Tenwealth," the Tormite told Adon happily. "Dunn Tenwealth, high priest of Torm. Now, put on a cheerful face, friend Adon. There is reason enough to feel fear and depression outside these walls." The priest stood up and threw his arms open wide. "While you are here, you are safe within the gauntleted hand of Lord Torm."

Tenwealth helped Adon to his feet then patted him on the shoulder. "I must leave you now," the platinum-haired man said. "I have other duties to attend to." Adon stayed in the chamber for a little while after Tenwealth left, then spent the morning and half the afternoon observing services and rituals that were so commonplace the scarred cleric soon grew bored. Adon had been a traveler in his youth. He had once seen a pagan ritual performed on the lip of a violently churning volcano that was at once beautiful and terrifying. Although the cleric could appreciate the well-ordered, perfectly respectable rites the followers of Torm performed to honor their god, he was not impressed.

In the middle of the afternoon, Adon sent a messenger to deliver a note to Midnight at the Lazy Moon. Adon then found himself alone in a lush garden that lay at the rear of the temple. A beautiful statue of a golden lion stood in the center of the garden, seeming to stare lazily at Adon as he sat on a stone bench.

Allowing his facade of contentment to drop, the cleric mulled over all that he had seen and heard since he entered the gatehouse almost a day ago. Obviously something sinister was going on in the temple, and it seemed likely that Lord Torm knew nothing about it. Like all the fallen gods, the God of Duty was forced to rely on a human avatar. But Torm was also locked away in a palace, where only smiles of adoration could penetrate the carefully guarded walls. Adon shivered and closed his eyes.

"The gods are as vulnerable as we are," Adon murmured sadly after a few moments.

"I've long suspected it," a voice said nonchalantly. The cleric opened his eyes, turned, and saw a man who was as ruggedly handsome as anyone Adon had ever seen. The man's hair was red, with touches of amber. A neatly trimmed beard and mustache accentuated his strong, proud jaw. The eyes that gazed into Adon's were a rich blue, with flecks of purple and black. Staring at the man's face was not unlike watching a setting sun.

The man smiled warmly, genuinely. "I am Torm. My faithful call me 'the Living God,' but as I gather you already know, I am just one of many gods in Faerun these days." The man held a gauntleted hand out to the cleric.

Adon's shoulders sagged. This was no god. It was merely another cleric sent to test him again.

"Don't torment me!" Adon snapped. "If this is another test of my worth — "

Torm frowned only slightly then gestured toward the statue of the lion. Suddenly a roar filled the garden, and the golden lion padded toward the red-haired man. Torm caressed the creature's head, and the beast lay obediently at the fallen god's feet. Torm turned to Adon and asked, "Is that proof enough for you?"

The scarred cleric shook his head. "There are many mages who could do that trick," he said flatly.

Torm frowned deeply now.

"And even though your god resides here," Adon added, "you are a madman or a fool for attempting that illusion. Magic is a dangerous force to wield, and I have no desire to endanger myself by remaining in your company." The cleric stood and started to walk away.

"By all the Planes!" the God of Duty cried then stretched. "You don't know how long it's been since someone has dared to stand up to me! I am, above all, a warrior, and I respect that kind of spirit."

Adon snorted. "Please stop the jests, mage. I don't wish to be taunted any longer."

The god's eyes grew dark, and the golden lion stretched and moved to Torm's side. "Though I may value spirit, Adon of Sune, I will not tolerate insubordination."

Something told Adon he had made a mistake in angering the red-haired man. He looked at Torm and saw the purple and black fragments swirling around angrily in his eyes. The cleric saw power in those eyes, too — power and knowledge far beyond that possessed by any mortal being. At that moment, Adon knew that he was looking into the eyes of a god. The cleric bowed his head. "I am sorry, Lord Torm. I expected you to travel with an entourage. I never thought to meet you wandering in the gardens alone, unguarded." The living god stroked his beard. "Ah. You now have faith in my words, I see."

Adon shuddered. Faith? he thought bitterly. I've seen gods destroyed as casually as pigs on a market day. I've seen the beings most of Faerun's humans worship act like petty tyrants. No, the cleric realized. I don't have anything close to faith… but I do recognize power when I see it. And I know when to bow to save my own life.

The God of Duty smiled. "I left an image sitting upon my throne. It rests there, brooding, and I left orders that I was in an inhospitable mood and would severely punish any who dared to disturb me," Torm said.

"But how did you get here without being seen?" Adon asked, raising his head to look at the god once more.

"The diamond corridors," Torm told the cleric. "They begin the center of the temple and connect to every chamber. They are designed as a maze, so that few can travel them without becoming lost." The fallen god paused and stroked the lion's mane. "I've heard you have a message for me… that you have seen Lord Helm." The god sat down again, and the lion slowly lowered itself to the ground at Torm's feet.

The cleric told as much of the story as he could, leaving out mention of the murders that Cyric committed and Elminster's claim that one of the Tablets of Fate was hidden in Tantras.

"Bane and Myrkul!" Torm growled as Adon finished his tale. "I should have known those treacherous curs were behind the theft of the tablets. And Mystra dead, her power scattered throughout the weave of magic surrounding Faerun! Dark and shocking news." The God of Duty closed his eyes and sighed. Adon could almost feel the fallen god's sorrow.

A man wandered into the garden and froze when he saw Adon and Torm, then ran back inside the temple. The God of Duty seemed to have missed the man's entrance and hasty exit, but Adon did not. He knew that the garden would be filled with Tormites very soon.

The god opened his eyes. "I regret that I cannot help you with your quest to save the Realms," Torm told the cleric. "I am needed here. I have a duty to my faithful." The God of Duty put his hand on Adon's scarred cheek and said, "There is something I can help you with, though. You must look inside your heart if you are to banish these dark, guilty thoughts that consume you and make you so bitter. What were you before you joined your order?"

The cleric pulled away from the god's touch as if it were fire. "I was… nothing," he whispered. "I was a burden upon my parents. I had no true friends."

"But now friends and lovers grace your life," Torm noted, smiling once more. "From what you have told me, the mage and the fighter seem loyal to you. That, above all, is important. You should honor them, in return, with faithful service to them and their causes. You cannot do that if you are consumed by your own sorrows."

Torm balled his gauntleted hand into a fist. "Don't waste your life in self-pity, Adon of Sune, for you cannot serve your friends… or your god, if your heart is weighed down with grief," the fallen god said.

Adon heard voices from inside the temple. People were coming. The scarred cleric leaned close to the God of Duty.

"Thank you for sharing your wisdom, Lord Torm," Adon whispered. "Now let me fulfill my duty to help you. All is not as it seems in your temple or in Tantras. There are forces around you that could tear the city apart. You must look to your clerics and find out what they are doing to serve you. Not all dutiful service is done with justice in mind."

The voices grew louder then a dozen high priests entered the garden and fell to their knees before Torm. The lion roared in annoyance as the men babbled an almost endless torrent of problems that required their god's immediate attention. Torm rose, smiled at Adon, and turned to the temple's nearest entrance. The golden lion and the crowd of priests followed the god as he left the garden.

Several minutes later, Adon was taken from the garden and locked away in a dark chamber that was devoid of any furnishings. The room reminded the cleric of the cell he had shared with Midnight in the Twisted Tower, but he tried to push those thoughts aside as he waited. It was several hours before a tray of food was brought to him by a silent, surly guard.

"I'm not hungry," Adon mumbled, his grumbling stomach betraying his lie. "Take the food away and tell me why I'm here."

The guard left the food then departed. An hour later, Adon had finished the meal, which consisted of slightly stale bread and cheese. Soon afterward, a familiar, platinum-haired man entered the chamber, a large smile hanging artfully upon his lips.

"Tenwealth!" Adon gasped and stood up.

"It seems you had quite an adventure today," the priest said. The tone he used would have been suitable for a child. Adon felt insulted. "Would you care to talk about it?"

"What is there to say?" Adon grumbled, a frown pulling at the scar on his cheek, darkening the wound. "I had my audience with Torm. Now I'm ready to leave. Why are your guards unwilling to release me?"

"My guards?" Tenwealth said through the false smile. "Why, they are Torm's guards. They serve the God of Duty and are only doing his will."

"And have I been kept here under his orders?" Adon asked, taking a step toward the priest.

"Not exactly," Tenwealth admitted, running a hand across his chin. "You're not being 'kept' here at all. There's no lock on your door, no guard outside." The priest paused and opened the door. "Of course, there is the danger that you could become lost in Torm's maze before you reach the exit. That would be most unfortunate. Some who have been lost in the diamond corridors have never been heard from again."

Adon looked down at the floor. "I understand," he said dejectedly, then slumped to a sitting position against the wall.

"I thought you might," Tenwealth noted confidently, his perfect smile gleaming in the darkened chamber. "Have a good rest. In a few hours, I'll return for you. You have an audience scheduled with the High Council of Torm. That should set your mind at ease."

The priest left the chamber, and Adon considered the hopelesness of the situation for a little while then fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. Several hours later, Tenwealth returned with two guards. Adon was fast asleep, and the priest had to shake him roughly to awaken him.

As Adon followed Tenwealth out into the corridor, a plan began to form in his mind. The cleric decided that he would grab a weapon from one of the guards as soon as they were clear of the corridors and fight his way out of the temple. He knew that it was probably suicide, but it was a far better way to die than to be executed in secret. So Adon kept careful watch on the proximity of the guards and played the fool as they marched along. Though Tenwealth became annoyed at Adon's idiotic patter, Adon noted that the two guards relaxed considerably.

Adon was about to make his move against the nearer of the guards when, at the end of the corridor, he saw a white-bearded old man carrying a harp. Suddenly the cleric grabbed a torch from the wall, broke away from Tenwealth and the guards, and ran toward the old man. The platinum-haired priest cried out an order, and the guards raced after the scarred cleric.

"Elminster!" Adon cried as he raced down the hall. "You're alive!"

The old man looked up in alarm. He had been arguing with another priest of Torm, and a momentary flicker of surprise passed across his face when he saw Adon racing toward him. Then he frowned and stood perfectly still.

The young cleric stopped directly before the old man. The blazing torch bathed the minstrel's face in warmth and light, and the heat from the flames made the white-bearded man draw back. And though Adon was certain that he had recognized the man from farther down the hall, closer examination revealed the old man to be someone other than Elminster. The scarred young man was about to turn away from the minstrel when he saw the tip of the old man's nose begin to melt.

"Elminster!" Adon said, his voice cracking, just as Tenwealth's guards reached out for him.

The minstrel looked around, gauged the confusion of the Tormites, and cast a spell before anyone was aware of his true intention. The air crackled, and a shimmering mist of blue-white energies filled the corridor.

"All of ye will accompany Adon and me out of the temple and beyond the citadel. Then ye will return and act as if nothing has happened," Elminster ordered. Tenwealth, the two guards, and the priest nodded stiffly.

The sage smiled. The mass suggestion spell had actually worked! It was the first incantation that had gone right in some time, too. The old mage decided that it must be the close proximity of Torm's avatar that was stabilizing magic a bit, then thanked the Goddess of Luck for good measure and gestured for the Tormites to lead the way out of the corridor.

Adon stood frozen, staring in a mixture of shock and relief at the sage. "Elminster, what are you doing here?"

"My intention was not to save thy worthless hide, I assure ye," the mage growled, wiping a bit of wax from his nose, "Unfortunately, ye left me no choice." Elminster started after the Tormites. When Adon didn't move, he turned back and said, "Ye were hit with that spell, too. If ye dally long enough to make me suggest a course for ye to follow, ye'll not like where it takes ye."

Adon gladly followed the sage. Memories and thoughts whirled in the cleric's mind. Adon knew only that he was relieved to see Elminster alive. Tears of joy streamed down his face.

"Wipe that silly grin from your face and those tears from your eyes," Elminster grumbled as they left the corridors and entered the temple's courtyard. "We don't want to arouse any suspicion."

"But I have so many questions — ," Adon began breathlessly.

"They can wait," Elminster snapped.

Adon followed the sage's commands, and within a short time they were several blocks away from the Temple of Torm. They tried to lose themselves in the crowd as soon as Tenwealth and his men headed back to their home.

After a few minutes of pushing their way through milling crowds, Adon turned to Elminster and asked, "Now can you give me some answers?"

"Not until we're safe," Elminster grumbled.

Adon's relief was quickly giving way to anger. Grabbing the sage's arm, the cleric forced the old man to stop. They were on a crowded main street that led to the highest of the citadel's towers, and that building's golden spires were in full view from where they stood. Shops lined the avenue around them.

"Listen to me, old man," the scarred cleric growled. "We'll never be safe as long as we remain in Tantras. The Council of Torm will send its agents after us no matter where we hide. Where we stand at this instant is as good a place as any for you to explain yourself. Now tell me what I want to know."

"Unhand me," Elminster said calmly, his eyes as narrow as a cat's before it springs. "Then I'll tell ye what ye wish to know."

Adon let go of the sage's arm. "Tell me what happened to you in Shadowdale at the Temple of Lathander. I thought you'd died… and that it was my fault," Adon said. He felt anger bubble over inside of him and he added, "You can't imagine the hell I've been through because of you!"

"I can readily imagine," Elminster sighed and turned away from the cleric. "Considering where that rift took me." A voice rang out. "Adon!"

The cleric recognized the voice as Midnight's, and he turned around to look for the mage. A horrible realization dawned upon the cleric then, and he immediately whirled around and grabbed the old sage's arm. Adon looked at Elminster. The mage was ready to walk into the crowd that surrounded them.

"You're not leaving my sight," Adon said. Elminster simply scowled and crossed his arms.

Midnight arrived, with Kelemvor directly behind her. When she saw Elminster, she wrapped her arms around the sage, nearly crushing him in her embrace. The old mage grumbled in protest and pushed her away.

"I'd never have believed it!" Midnight cried as she stepped back from the sage. "I thought I saw you once, yesterday, but I convinced myself that I was only hoping too hard that you'd survived." Tears were streaming down the raven-haired mage's face.

"Never do that again!" Elminster shouted, gesturing with the harp he'd forgotten that he held.

Kelemvor had been surprised to see Elminster, too, but he was now feeling angry, not overjoyed, that the old sage was alive. "Quite a singing voice you have there," the fighter commented sarcastically. "It's too bad you use it to cause so much trouble."

Adon stood a few feet away, staring at the old sage, a barely subdued fury roiling across his features. "You weren't even going to tell us that you were alive. You cruel old buzzard. We're here, risking our lives on your damn quest — "

"Lady Mystra set ye on thy quest," Elminster reminded the cleric. "I simply helped ye along the way."

"We're wanted criminals," Midnight told the mage softly. "Adon and I were nearly executed in Shadowdale for your death."

"That charge has been dropped," Elminster mumbled as he rubbed his neck and motioned for the heroes to follow him. Passersby were beginning to stare, and the heroes agreed that it was probably best to move along.

"I've been to Shadowdale," the sage added. "Ye are no longer suspects in my killing. But there is still the matter of six guards that were murdered during your escape. That ye will still have to answer for."

"You were spying on us," Kelemvor noted flatly. "That's what you were doing here. Checking up on us."

"What else could I do?" Elminster grumbled. "If the charges against ye are true, then ye're hardly fit to serve as champions of Mystra and all of Faerun."

Kelemvor explained that it had been Cyric who'd committed the murders, without Midnight or Adon's knowledge or assistance. The fighter noted, too, that Cyric was now in the employ of the Black Lord.

"You don't know that for sure!" Midnight snapped, shooting the fighter an angry glance. "When you arrived at the safe house in Scardale, you were pretending to work for Bane just to get free of him. Cyric might have been forced into a similar position." The mage turned to Elminster. "I never saw him commit any of the murders of which he's been accused, and Shadowdale has a history of convicting innocent people, as far as I'm concerned."

Adon folded his arms over his chest, and his eyes grew wide with surprise, but the surprise was tinged with fear, "Cyric's alive! He'll come after us next, Midnight."

The raven-haired mage shook her head. "Adon, we have no proof — "

The cleric stopped in the middle of the street. "Cyric is dangerous, Midnight. And not just to us. After the trip down the Ashaba, you should understand that!"

"Let's keep moving," Elminster whispered, scanning the crowd for guards or priests of Torm. "I have a sanctuary nearby where the two of ye can continue thy discussion."

Adon walked to Kelemvor's side, but Midnight put her hand on Elminster's arm. "We'll go, but first, tell us what happened in the Temple of Lathander," the mage ordered. "Adon and I were convinced you'd died. How did you survive the rift?"

Elminster glared at the heroes. "Must we do this now?"

"Aye," Adon said. "Right now."

The sage rolled his eyes and motioned for the heroes to follow him into a nearby alley. "My attempt to raise the Eye of Eternity went afoul because of the instability in the magic weave that surrounds and envelops all things. When I examined the rift, I saw that the spell had opened a gate to Gehenna, a terrible place filled with awful, nightmarish creatures."

The sage paused and glanced up and down the alley. "I knew that the only way to seal the rift was to do it from the other side, where the effects of the magical chaos were very slight and my spells were almost certain to succeed. I let the rift pull me into Gehenna, and once I was through, I cast the spells that sealed the gateway. There was only one point of difficulty."

"You were trapped outside of the Realms?" Midnight gasped, her eyes wide with wonder.

"Escape from the Plane of Gehenna, where Loviatar, Mistress of Pain, made her home before the gods were cast down, was not a simple matter. I was forced to fight my way through imps, mephits, and every form of unholy creature imaginable." Elminster shuddered and rubbed his hands up and down his arms. "Eventually I found an area even the monsters feared to tread. Mystra had blessed a patch of ground on that terrible plane centuries ago during a dispute with Loviatar."

A cleric of Torm appeared in the crowd at the end of the alley, and Elminster started to make his way farther up the passage. "When I returned to Shadowdale," he said over his shoulder, "there was little to do but pick up the pieces. And now I am here, wasting time jabbering with ye three even as the damned palace guard makes preparations to hunt us down."

As the heroes walked through the alleys to Elminster's lair, they discussed what they'd discovered. Kelemvor couldn't believe that Adon and the sage had Tenwealth in their grasps and let him walk away. But when the cleric explained Tenwealth's status in Torm's temple, Kelemvor put the final pieces of the puzzle together.

"Torm's high priests are running all those who are faithful to other gods out of the city," the fighter whispered. "Then they take the abandoned temples and add the property to their own."

"That must be why the Sunites burned their temple to the ground, along with everything they couldn't carry away," Midnight added. "They didn't want the Tormites to get it!"

Adon frowned and ran a hand through his dirty, tangled hair. "So most of the sacred artifacts that have been confiscated from the city must be hidden in the Temple of Torm."

"Right!" Kelemvor snapped. "And if Bane disguised the tablet, as we suspect, and hid it in a temple, the Tormites probably don't even know what they've got! Tenwealth probably believed it to be just another trinket when he saw it."

"This is just as I suspected," Elminster noted as he narrowed his eyes and looked at the heroes closely. "And it's the reason why I was at the temple this morning, too."

"Then you agree?" Midnight whispered in surprise.

"Yes, Midnight. I believe ye're right," the white-haired mage said. "The Tablet of Fate is hidden in the Temple of Torm…"

The port of Scardale had seen more activity during the past five days than it had in the previous five months. The theft of the Queen of the Night had brought about serious ramifications for the city. Bane's headquarters had been moved from the Zhentish garrison to the port itself, and every ship in the harbor had been placed under the direct control of the Black Lord's troops.

A chamber inside the largest building in the port had been converted into a war room. The room was filled with maps and charts, all of which were lined with marks indicating past and future troop movements. Now, Bane sat at the head of a large, polished table covered with such maps. And as the God of Strife listened to his generals' schemes and complaints, the sorceress, Tarana Lyr, stood behind him.

The soldier closest to the fallen god, a man named Hepton, rubbed at his temples, then folded his hands and dropped them to the table. "Lord Bane, you must address the rumors that have been circulating throughout the ranks concerning Tantras. Do you intend to mobilize our forces again so soon after taking Scardale?"

"To do so would be a grave error," Windling, a general from the Citadel of the Raven, interjected. There were murmurs of agreement from the other Zhentish leaders.

"Enough!" Bane shouted, slamming his fist on top of the thick wooden table. The sound of the table splintering silenced the men. Tarana's quiet giggling was the only sound in the room for a minute or more.

"The Battle of Shadowdale was a disaster," Bane noted casually, his eyes narrowed in anger. "The loss was, of course, unexpected, and the casualties much higher than anyone could have anticipated." The god paused and looked at the silent generals. "And while we managed an almost bloodless coup in the taking of Scardale, it is only a matter of time before the armies of Sembia and the Dales attempt to retake the city."

The generals nodded their agreement. Bane uncurled his fist and stood up. "If we use our forces to attack Tantras, then our victory here will have amounted to nothing. It is clear to me that a majority of the occupation force must remain in Scardale." The God of Strife smiled and ran a hand through his red hair. "But I am a god. And gods have options not open to mortals."

The doors to the chamber flew open, and Cyric rushed in. Bane looked up and scowled slightly. Inside the Black Lord's mind, Fzoul screeched in anger at the sight of the hawk-nosed thief.

Cyric looked around the room and realized the mistake he'd made in interrupting the session. The thief quickly lowered his head and backed away. "Lord Bane, I didn't mean to disturb — "

"Nonsense!" the God of Strife snapped. "You aren't interrupting anything important." The generals looked at each other then slowly began to stand. "I didn't say our meeting was over," Bane growled, and the Zhentish leaders quickly salt down again.

"Lord Bane, I can come back later," Cyric said quickly, noting the anger in the generals' eyes. These were certainly men he didn't want to anger.

"Give me your report," Bane cried, his voice impatient. "Prove to my generals that the Tantras situation is well under control."

Cyric cleared his throat. "I can't do that."

Bane leaned forward, putting his fists on the table. The cracked wood creaked under the god's weight. "What happened?"

"Durrock is dead. Kelemvor killed him," Cyric told the Black Lord, his head still bowed. "The assassin put up a spectacular fight, but the fighter tricked him."

"Why didn't you kill Kelemvor?" Bane asked.

"After Durrock failed, my duty was clear. I had to return to you and inform you that Kelemvor, Midnight, and Adon are in Tantras." The thief swallowed once and hoped that the other information he had for the God of Strife would appease him — for the moment, at least. "And you should know, Lord Bane, that Tantras appears to be preparing for war."

A wave of surprised whispers rolled through the room. Bane looked at the worried faces of his generals.

"Prepare the ships and man them with as few of our Zhentilar as possible!"

"No!" Hepton cried. "This is a grave mistake!"

"Silence!" Bane shouted. "News of our victory in Scardale has obviously spread to Tantras. The city is preparing its defenses, and it is certain to call upon its neighbors for help if we give them time to do so." The Black Lord leaned toward Hepton and snarled, "I want my banner to fly over Tantras within the week. I want it. Do you understand?"

Hepton nodded weakly, and the generals rose from the table and began to file out of the room. Cyric breathed a sigh of relief and turned to leave, too.

"Not you, Cyric!" Bane snapped. The Black Lord gestured for Cyric to come closer. Tarana gripped the back of the Black Lord's chair.

"Shall I kill him for you, Lord Bane?" Tarana asked, her eyes taking on a dreamy glaze.

"No," Bane said casually then waited until the last of the generals had left before he spoke again. As the door closed, Bane whispered, "The Company of the Scorpions is still under your command — is that correct, Cyric?"

The hawk-nosed thief nodded and smiled slightly. It was clear that the news of Tantras's preparation for war had turned the fallen god's thoughts away from murder.

"I wish you and your troops to become my new personal guard. But know this," Bane snarled and placed his hand on Cyric's shoulder. "If any harm comes to Fzoul's body, it will be your flesh I will inhabit next. And I will not be as generous as I was with Fzoul. Your mind will be utterly destroyed. Is that understood?" The God of Strife squeezed the thief's shoulder until the bones felt as if they were about to break.

Wincing in pain, Cyric nodded then hurried from the war room.

The Black Lord turned to his sorceress and pointed toward the door. "Make sure the door is locked then summon Lord Myrkul for me," Bane commanded and sat down.

The sorceress checked the door then cast an incantation. There was a brief shimmering of the air, and the amber skull of the God of the Dead floated in the air before the Black Lord.

"Congratulations on your victory in Scardale," Myrkul told Bane, and the disembodied head bowed slightly.

"That is unimportant," Bane grumbled. "I need to take care of a problem in Tantras. I'll be taking some of my fleet and — "

The God of the Dead smiled a rictus grin, showing a row of rotting teeth. "And I am to have a part to play in the battle," he noted flatly.

"I need the power you gave me in Shadowdale, the soul energies of the dead," Bane said, drumming his fingers on the table. "Can you do it?"

"I need a large number of people to die at once in order to empower that spell," Myrkul said suspiciously, rubbing his chin. "You sacrificed your troops in Shadowdale. Who will pay this time for the increased power I can give you?"

The God of Strife sat still for a moment, silently turning the problem over and over in his mind. He certainly couldn't use his soldiers and priests for Myrkul's spell again, yet the souls would have to he aligned to his cause or it might prove difficult to control them. Then the Black Lord realized whom he would make the victims of Myrkul's spell.

"The assassins," Bane whispered through an evil smile. "The assassins have failed me time and again since the night of Arrival. They failed me in Spiderhaunt Woods, in Scardale, and now in Tantras. For this, all the assassins in the Realms must die to give me the power I need!"

The God of the Dead laughed. "You've become as mad as your assistant. The assassins are valuable to me."

"Are they?" Bane asked, arching one eyebrow. "Why?"

The God of the Dead frowned, and as he did, his cheekbones protruded through his decaying skin. "They provide my kingdom with souls. There is a pressing need — "

"Ah, yes… the Realm of the Dead," Bane said dryly. "Have you been there lately?" Tarana giggled.

Myrkul was silent for a moment. When he spoke, there was no trace of amusement in his rasping, hollow voice. "I have not come here to listen to you state the obvious. We are, of course, both barred from our kingdoms."

"Then any measure that could help us to regain our rightful homes in the Planes cannot be deemed extreme or worthless, can it?" Bane noted as he stood.

"Only if the effort is wasted," Myrkul grumbled as the Black Lord walked toward the hovering image of the God of the Dead.

"I seek to reclaim the Tablet of Fate that I hid in Tantras, Myrkul!" Bane screamed. The Black Lord wished that his fellow god was in the room with him so he could strike him for his insolence. "Powerful forces may move against me — against us — if they discover that tablet. In Shadowdale, I was overconfident, and I paid the bitter price of defeat. I would rather die than face that again!"

Myrkul took a moment to consider the Black Lord's words. His expressionless, skeletal visage seemed to shimmer and fade for an instant, causing the God of Strife to reel with barely controlled panic. Finally the image resumed its full strength, and Bane relaxed. The Black Lord knew from Myrkul's eyes that the God of the Dead had decided to aid him even before he spoke.

"If you feel so strongly about this matter, then I will help you to recover the tablet," Myrkul said, nodding slowly.

Bane tried to act confident. With a shrug, he noted, "I had no doubt that you would aid me."

"You had every doubt," Myrkul rasped harshly. "That is the only reason I chose to help you. I am pleased to note that you are no longer blindly stumbling into situations that you know nothing about." The God of the Dead paused and fixed Bane with an icy stare. "But there is one thing you must consider: You may not have my assistance the next time you need it, Lord Bane."

The God of Strife nodded, dismissing Myrkul's threat as so much pointless rhetoric. Then the Black Lord mocked a look of concern and noted, "Bhaal will not be pleased if you kill all his worshipers."

"I will deal with the Lord of Murder," Myrkul said, rubbing his hand across his decaying chin once more. "I will contact you when all is in readiness." The Lord of Bones paused for a moment then added, "Have you given thought to what form you will use to hold the soul energy my spell will channel to you?"

Bane said nothing.

Rage danced in Myrkul's eyes. "Your human avatar couldn't handle the strain in Shadowdale, and the rite you wish me to perform will likely yield you far more power than the one I used then!" The God of the Dead shook his head and sighed. "Do you still have the small obsidian statue I used to contain your essence in the Border Ethereal?'

"I do," Bane said, a look of confusion on his face.

"This is what you must do," Myrkul told Bane. The Lord of Bones quickly listed a complex series of instructions and forced the God of Strife and his mad sorceress to repeat them several times. Then, as soon as he was satisfied that Tarana and Bane knew how to prepare for the rite, the God of the Dead's image disappeared in a flash of gray light and a puff of stinking, yellow-and-black smoke.