Tantras

I

There were depths to the darkness surrounding Midnight that she feared to explore. The room was perfectly black. It might have been a storage area at one time, or perhaps a large closet. The momentary glimpse that the magic-user had been given of the tiny cell when she and Adon were first locked away had revealed very little. The light from the torch their jailer held hadn't seemed to illuminate the room, and Midnight now wondered if the ceiling, walls, and floor of the cell had been painted black to keep her disoriented.

She'd been bound and gagged to prevent her from casting any spells, but the dalesmen had neglected to blindfold her. She had a horrible feeling of total isolation in the pitch-dark room. Only the sound of Adon's breathing reminded Midnight that she was not alone in the cell.

The network of ropes around the magic-user held her arms behind her back and bound her legs together tightly. Her wrists and ankles had been tied, too, and her fingers awkwardly touched the heels of her feet. Lying with her face pressed half against the floor was the only position that was remotely comfortable. At least it allowed her an occasional hour or so of sleep. Even then, though, pain constantly shot through her body.

After the first few hours in the black room, the magic-user's initial panic began to subside, only to be replaced by a numbing fear. Was it possible that she had been forgotten and left there to die? Again and again, she attempted to scream, but her muffled cries yielded no response. Occasionally she heard Adon shift in the darkness. Midnight wondered if the cleric was awake. He had said nothing since they were taken prisoner at the ruined Temple of Lathander. The mage knew the cleric hadn't been gagged. If he didn't speak, it was probably because he was unconscious or in shock.

As Midnight thought of all that had happened to her and her friends since they had left Arabel less than a month ago, she wondered why she hadn't gone into shock, too. First Mystra, the Goddess of Magic, had entrusted her with a shard of power in the form of a pendant. Then the gods had been thrown out of the Planes because of the theft of the two Tablets of Fate — ancient artifacts that listed the names of all the gods and their spheres of influence. Next Midnight had gone with Kelemvor, Cyric, Adon, and the goddess's intended avatar to save Mystra from Lord Bane, the God of Strife.

When they rescued Mystra, the goddess took back the power she had given to Midnight and tried to enter the Planes using a Celestial Stairway. The stairway, like many others throughout the Realms, was actually a path to the Planes, a direct link from the world to the homes of the gods. But before Mystra could climb the stairway and reach her home in Nirvana, Lord Helm, the God of Guardians, had stopped her.

Though Mystra tried to defeat Helm, the god would not allow her to pass into the Planes without the Tablets of Fate. And because Helm still had much of his godly power, he was able to stop the fallen goddess easily. In the end, Mystra had been killed, but not before she returned the pendant to Midnight, along with instructions to seek out Elminster in Shadowdale and find the lost Tablets of Fate before the Realms suffered even more damage.

While traveling through the chaos-ridden lands of Faerun, Midnight and her companions had been brought together as friends. The magic-user had gained Kelemvor as a lover, and Cyric and Adon as close allies. She had been lucky until now, although she felt she was a mere pawn in the conflicts of the gods, she had lost nothing. Not like Adon.

For clerics, the crisis in Faerun after the night of Arrival had been especially trying. Priests found that they could cast spells only if they were within a mile of their deity.

Worse still, they saw their deities take on flesh and blood to survive. Now the gods had all the limitations of a mortal frame. But Adon seemed to accept all this as the will of the gods.

Until the day the heroes left Tilverton.

On that day, a worshiper of Gond had attacked Adon with a knife and slashed him savagely across the face. Because Midnight and her allies needed to escape into the desolate area around the Shadow Gap in order to lose the mob that followed them out of Tilverton, they could not take the unconscious cleric to a healer. An ugly scar formed on Adon's face. Some might have considered this a mark of glory. Adon, however, was a worshiper of Lady Sune, the Goddess of Beauty.

Suddenly Adon felt as if he had been abandoned by Sune, as if he had done something terribly wrong and deserved to be punished. The once-joyful young cleric grew morose and sullen. Midnight had hoped that helping to save the Dales from the armies of Zhentil Keep would help Adon recover his spirit, but the incidents at the Temple of Lathander, when Elminster and Midnight battled Lord Bane, only deepened the cleric's depression.

And unless I can find a way to prove that it was Bane — not Adon and I — who killed Elminster, Midnight thought, things could get a lot worse for both of us.

Midnight reviewed the battle at the temple over and over again in her mind, examining each minute detail. She knew there had to be some way to prove that she and Adon had not killed the great sage, but she simply couldn't discover it.

She heard a noise at the door: the sound of keys rattling on a chain. The heavy door swung open, and Midnight was forced to squeeze her eyes shut as the bright flame from a torch nearly blinded her.

"Get them out." The voice was deep and resonant, but tinged with pain. "And be careful."

Midnight felt strong hands upon her, and she forced her eyes open. Guardsmen had grabbed her from either side. A powerful figure stood in the doorway, a torch held in one hand, a walking stick crowned with a small silver dragon's skull in the other.

"She's shaking," one of the guards said as they lifted Midnight from the floor. A muffled cry of agony rang out from the magic-user, and the guards hesitated.

"What do you expect?" the man in the doorway snapped "You've trussed her up like an animal. Her limbs are sore."

As they dragged Midnight forward, her legs scraping along the floor, the bruised and scarred face of the aging warrior came fully into view. She did not recognize the older man, though she was immediately struck by his sharp blue eyes. He frowned slightly as Midnight was dragged past him.

The mage saw four other guardsmen in the hallway. Two of them entered the black room and retrieved Adon. Then the prisoners were taken past a row of barred cells, through a narrow hallway, and into the cavernous expanse of an outer chamber, where a table and three chairs had been set up.

"Remove the gag," the older man said as he helped the guards to position Midnight in a large wooden chair.

"But she's a powerful magic-user! Remember, she killed Elminster with her powers," a short, blond guard snapped as he backed away from Midnight. The other guards reached for their weapons. Adon simply stood where the guards had left him, a blank look on his face.

The older man grimaced. His blue eyes sparked with anger. "Has she been fed or given water?"

"No," the blond guard mumbled. "The risks — "

"The risks will be mine," the older man growled. He walked out from behind the chair and looked into the dark-haired woman's eyes. "She knows that I'm here to help her."

Suspicious glances passed between the guards.

"Do it now!" the older man bellowed. He clutched at the back of the chair as the strain of raising his voice took its toll, and he started to cough uncontrollably. Despite his impressive stature, the man was obviously recovering from a traumatic illness.

The guards removed Midnight's gag, and she opened her mouth wide, gulping in mouthfuls of air. "Water… water, please," Midnight croaked, her throat completely raw. The older man nodded, and a guard brought her a ladle full of cool water.

"Cut the bonds on her legs," the blue-eyed man ordered. "She can't cast spells with her feet. Besides, I want her to walk to the trial." The order was obeyed without hesitation, and Midnight relaxed noticeably as circulation began to return to her legs and feet.

"I am Thurbal," the older man said as Adon was seated next to Midnight. "I'm captain of the guard. It is important that you pay attention to my every word. In less than an hour, these men will lead you through the Twisted Tower to the audience chambers of Lord Mourngrym, our liege. There you will be tried for the murder of Elminster the sage.

"You must tell me all you can about the events leading up to the death of the mage. I need to know everything if I am to give you a proper defense." Thurbal gripped the dragon skull of his walking stick as if he were fighting off a wave of pain.

"Why are you helping us?" Midnight asked, curious.

"I was wounded on a mission to Zhentil Keep and lay deep in a healing sleep for most of the time you've been in the dale. Because of this, Mourngrym is convinced that I will be fair and impartial in this matter."

"But Elminster was your friend," Midnight said. Her gaze drifted to Adon, who sat staring at the wall behind Thurbal, his eyes glazed, his skin pale and taut.

"Elminster was more than just my friend," Thurbal replied. "He was a friend to all the Dales and everyone who loves freedom and knowledge in Faerun. Anyone who knew him would testify to that. That could prove to be unfortunate for you. Time is short. You must tell me your side of the story."

For the next hour, Midnight recounted the details of her involvement with the elderly sage. She focused on the events that led up to Elminster's death in the Temple of Lathander, of course, but the true story of her involvement with the mage had begun when Mystra gave her the shard of power to safeguard.

Midnight closed her eyes as she recalled Bane's attack on the Temple of Lathander. "Elminster tried to summon a powerful force from another plane to deal with Bane," she began. "But the spell went awry. The rift he opened allowed Mystra — or more precisely, a fragment of Mystra's essence — to escape from the magical weave around Faerun."

"But I thought you said Mystra died back at Castle Kilgrave in Cormyr?" Thurbal asked.

"Yes, that's right. But when Helm destroyed her avatar, her energy must have been absorbed by the weave. She was more like a magic elemental when she appeared… a force rather than a person." Midnight let her head loll back to relieve the tension from her neck before continuing.

"But even Mystra couldn't save Elminster from Bane. The Black Lord forced Elminster into the rift before he was destroyed. Adon and I tried to save him, but we couldn't." Midnight opened her eyes once more and found Thurbal staring at the cleric.

"Well, Adon," the older man said, "what have you to say? Did you try to save Elminster?"

Adon had remained completely still as Midnight related the story of Bane's attack on the temple. The cleric sat with his hands bound tightly together, resting on his lap. Occasionally Adon would reach up to cover the scar on his face, but a guard would quickly push his hands back down. When Thurbal addressed Adon, the cleric slowly turned to look at the captain and simply stared at him, glassy-eyed and silent.

Thurbal shook his head and ran his hands through his thinning brown hair. "His silence certainly won't help us during the trial," he said. "Can't you get him to talk?"

Midnight looked at the young cleric. The man she saw before her was hardly the cleric she had met in Arabel. Adon's face was pale, and his light brown hair was a mess, something he never would have tolerated before he was wounded. The most disturbing thing to Midnight, however, was the lifelessness in his once-shining green eyes. "No," she sighed softly. "It's probably best if I do all the talking."

"Very well," Thurbal said. He rose from the table and nodded to a guardsman who had moved behind the magic-user. The guard replaced the gag just as Midnight attempted a cry of protest. "I'm sorry," Thurbal said, "but I have my orders. The town fears your powers, and Lord Mourngrym refuses to allow the possibility that you will create havoc at the trial with your spells."

The prisoners were taken up the stairway of the Twisted Tower. They passed through a stone arch and stood on aching legs in the central corridor of the tower as Thurbal conferred with one of his guards. The corridor led from the main entrance and traversed two thirds of the tower's length; its width was so great that five people could have walked side by side without difficulty.

Just then the door to Mourngrym's audience chamber burst open, and a chorus of outraged protests erupted from within. The prisoners were taken through the audience chamber with a show of force that brought cheers from the massive crowd gathered in the makeshift courtroom. Despite the thick stone walls of the fortress, the sounds of the outraged villagers outside added to the pandemonium. Chaos threatened to overtake the proceedings.

A dais lay at the head of the room, and Lord Mourngrym stood at the center of the platform, a small lectern before him. Dalesmen of noble blood were seated behind him. The ruler of the dales clutched the edges of the lectern until his knuckles grew white as the prisoners were prodded up the narrow stairs and deposited before him. Thurbal followed the prisoners and took his place at Mourngrym's left.

Storm Silverhand, the famous female bard and adventurer, stepped forward from the crowd and moved to Mourngrym's right. Light from the open shutters and the few torches scattered around the room reflected in her silver-hued hair, and hatred flashed in her blue-gray eyes. Storm and Sharantyr, a ranger with the Knights of Myth Drannor, had discovered Midnight and Adon lying unhurt outside the shattered Temple of Lathander. They also had discovered the fragments of a body that must have been Elminster's, along with cloth from his robe and pages from one of the sage's spellbooks.

As the prisoners knelt before Mourngrym, the noise from the crowd in the audience chamber began to swell. Much of the surviving populace of Shadowdale had turned out for the trial, and both the courtroom and the area outside the tower were crowded with angry men and women who shouted curses at Midnight and Adon. The soldiers of Mourngrym's guard found it difficult to contain the crowd.

Standing among the group of spectators at the front of the chamber, Kelemvor stared at the vulnerable form of his former lover as she was forced to kneel before Mourngrym. The fighter studied the cold, inaccessible expression of the dalelord and understood why his petition for a private audience with him the previous evening had been denied. Mourngrym's fury over the loss of his friend was obvious, though he was attempting to put aside his personal feelings and act with impartiality.

Mourngrym raised his hand, and silence fell upon the court instantly. "We have gathered here to perform a solemn duty, not to howl like hungry dogs in the night. Let us act like civilized men. Elminster would expect us to do nothing less."

A murmur rose from the spectators, but as the noise died down, the low, growling laughter of one man continued. Kelemvor turned to his left and jabbed his elbow sharply into Cyric's side. "Shut up, you fool!" the fighter whispered.

Cyric sneered at Kelemvor and shook his head. "Wait until the trial is over, Kel. Then we'll see what you think of the dalesmen's grand claims of justice."

When Cyric turned back to the dais, Mourngrym had his gaze locked on the thief. Raising one hand in mock apology, Cyric bowed slightly. A rumble of angry whispers was rising from the crowd again, but Mourngrym raised both hands to still the sound and cleared his throat noisily.

"Midnight of Deepingdale and Adon of Sune, you stand accused of the murder of the sage, Elminster," Mourngrym began.

The silence of the crowd was shattered like a fragile crystal by Mourngrym's words. Shouting for quiet, the dalelord unsheathed his sword and held it high in the air. Torchlight played off the blade and seemed to transform it into a mystic weapon, brilliant, hard, and unyielding. The guards all drew their swords and held them up in like fashion. The angry murmuring was silenced.

"Justice will be served," Mourngrym said. "I swear it!" There were cheers, and Mourngrym allowed the crowd to settle once more before he continued. "This is a military trial," he pronounced. "As such, there will be no jury. As lord of the dale, the responsibility of judgment is mine.

"Since magic is unstable, we dare not attempt to look into the minds of the accused. Facts alone will shape my verdict." Mourngrym gestured to the silver-haired woman beside him. "Let the prosecution introduce its case."

Storm Silverhand stepped forward. "There are two inescapable facts. First, a body was discovered in the Temple of Lathander. True, it was battered and torn beyond recognition, but the body was found near scraps of Elminster's robe and fragments from a number of his ancient spellbooks." The bard turned to the crowd. "Our sage and protector was missing, obviously murdered."

Storm Silverhand turned to the prisoners and gestured toward them. "Second, these two were seen running from the temple only seconds before it was leveled by magical forces. Yet they survived unscathed." The crowd's screams and threats echoed in the room.

Unlike Mourngrym, Storm didn't wait for the crowd to quiet down. "It is obvious that these two murdered our good friend," she cried over the noise of the spectators. Midnight tried to protest from under her gag, but it was no use.

"Hold!" Thurbal cried, waving his cane in the air. The captain of the guard turned to face Mourngrym. "We must not assume the guilt of these people. We are here to determine what happened, not to lynch these two!"

A storm of boos and hisses erupted from the spectators. Cyric glanced at Kelemvor, but the fighter was staring straight ahead. Thurbal shook his head and sat down, and Mourngrym rapped the lectern with the pommel of his sword.

"One more outburst like this and we will hold these hearings in seclusion!" the dalelord warned in a loud voice. The crowd quieted down while the guards removed a few spectators who refused to stop shouting.

"The prosecution calls Rhaymon of Lathander," Storm pronounced, and a blond man dressed in bright red robes with thick bands of gold trim was led forward by a guardsman.

"Tell us about the last time you saw Elminster alive," Storm said.

The priest frowned thoughtfully, then began to speak. "My final duty on the day of the Battle of Shadowdale was to stand guard at the Temple of Lathander until Elminster arrived."

"Stand guard? Against what?" Storm asked. "What were your fellow priests worried about?"

Rhaymon frowned, as if he had been asked a foolish question. "Earlier that day, the Temple of Tymora had been attacked. We were all badly shaken. The priests of Tymora were slaughtered, the temple desecrated, and the symbol of Bane painted in blood on its walls. Also the healing potions stored in Tymora's temple were stolen."

"So you feared, naturally enough, that the same thing could happen at your temple?"

"Yes, that's correct," Rhaymon said. "Elminster said he had something important to do at the temple. He said he would guard it for us."

"Even with his very life?" Storm leaned close to the cleric.

Thurbal stepped forward, gesturing with his cane in protest. "She's putting words in his mouth. Let the man speak for himself!"

Mourngrym's eyes smoldered. "Get on with it, Storm."

The silver-haired adventurer frowned and backed away from Rhaymon. "Was Elminster alone when he arrived at the temple?" the bard asked after a moment.

Shaking his head, the priest gestured toward the prisoners. "No. They were with him."

"Can you describe Elminster's mood at the time?"

Rhaymon seemed put off by the question. "Are you serious?" he mumbled quietly.

"I assure you, no one could be more serious," Storm said grimly.

The priest swallowed. "He was a bit cranky, but he was Elminster, after all."

There was some laughter from the crowd, but no hint of a smile crossed Storm's features. "Would it be fair to say Elminster seemed agitated? Did the presence of the prisoners upset him?"

Rhaymon looked serious. "I couldn't say what the cause of his uneasiness was. I do know this," the priest said quickly as he pointed toward Adon. "The one with the scar stopped me as I was leaving and told me to make Bane's soldiers pay for what happened to the worshipers of Tymora."

Storm nodded. "I have one final question. Do you think the prisoners killed Elminster?"

Thurbal rushed to stand before Mourngrym. "Milord, this goes too far!"

The expression of the dalelord grew dark. "I will decide how far this goes." Mourngrym turned to the priest. "Answer the question."

The priest tensed as he looked down at the prisoners. "If I could run them through, here and now, I would gladly do so. Many men, some hardly more than boys, died to save this town. While those heroes were giving their lives, these two were making a mockery of their sacrifice!"

"That is all," Storm said, and she took her place beside Mourngrym.

Thurbal eyed the priest carefully before he spoke. "Did you see either the scarred cleric or the woman harm Elminster in any way?"

"Our way of life has been destroyed! We will have to rebuild the temple — "

"Answer the question," Thurbal said calmly.

Rhaymon shook with anger. "I saw nothing."

"Thank you," Thurbal said. "You may go."

A guardsman took Rhaymon's arm and led him away. The priest looked over his shoulder and wrenched free of the guard. "I did not see the sun rise this morning! Does that mean this trial should be cloaked in darkness because it did not rise?"

"Enough!" Mourngrym declared firmly, and two guards gripped Rhaymon's arms.

"They are guilty and deserve no less than death!" Rhaymon shouted. Instantly the crowd was stirred into a frenzy. As the robed man was dragged away the guards grabbed several others from the crowd and forced them out of the audience chamber. The noise from outside the tower was growing steadily louder.

Cyric sat down on the bench and ran his hand through his brown hair. For this we risked our lives, the thief thought. We saved these cattle so they could put us on trial.

Then Cyric's attentions turned to Adon. The cleric was slack-jawed and seemed unaware of the gravity of the proceedings around him. There was no gag to prevent the cleric from declaring his innocence, but instead Adon chose to remain silent. Say something, you worthless slug! Cyric thought. If not for your sake, then do it for Midnight!

But Adon did not speak, even as Lhaeo was called to testify. The young man who stood before the court had brown hair and gentle green eyes. His back held straight, his concentration directed fully toward Storm Silverhand, Lhaeo stood with an air of royalty, a far cry from the simpering fop most denizens of the dale were familiar with. "I am Elminster's scribe," Lhaeo said. His voice was firm.

"When Midnight and Adon first arrived at Elminster's tower, they were in the company of Hawksguard, the acting captain of the guard." Lhaeo looked out into the audience. "The fighters, Kelemvor and Cyric, were also with them."

"Can you describe anything unusual in the exchange between Elminster and the magic-user, Midnight?" Storm asked.

Lhaeo swallowed. "Elminster indicated that this was not his first encounter with Midnight. He said something about the Stonelands."

"Where a strange disturbance was seen in the skies just days before the strangers arrived in Shadowdale," Storm pointed out. "Do you know anything about that?"

Lhaeo looked down into Midnight's eyes and saw the quiet desperation of the magic-user. Memories of Elminster teleporting from his tower in haste, then returning after nightfall, muttering something about Geryon's Death Spell, ran through the scribe's mind.

"Not that I recall," Lhaeo said, and Midnight's eyes closed slowly in thanks. "I wish to go on record that I do not believe Elminster is dead."

There were startled cries of outrage from the onlookers.

"We all know how close you were to the sage, Lhaeo," Storm said sympathetically. "I would not think it an exaggeration to say that he was like a father to you." Storm watched as Lhaeo stiffened. "But don't let that overwhelm your reason."

Storm bent over and picked up the tattered fragments of Elminster's robe and the pages from the ancient spellbooks. "These are Elminster's, are they not?" Lhaeo nodded slowly. "It is rather unlikely that your master would let artifacts such as these books be destroyed. And it is, in fact, impossible that he would allow the Temple of Lathander to be destroyed. If he were alive, surely he would have kept his promise to the clerics."

The bard paused for a moment before she spoke again. "What business did Midnight have with Elminster?"

"She claimed that she carried the final words of the goddess Mystra, as well as a symbol of the goddess's trust."

"Then she is a heretic as well as a killer!" Storm cried, and the crowd exploded.

"Enough!" Mourngrym shouted, and the spectators slowly grew quiet once more. "Control yourself, Storm, or I will be forced to find a replacement for you in these proceedings!"

There was silence from the crowd.

"You were not present at the Temple of Lathander?" Storm asked when she turned back to the scribe.

"No," Lhaeo said softly. "Elminster had sent me to contact the Knights of Myth Drannor. Magical communication with the East had been blocked. I was armed with Elminster's wards and traveled at night."

"You left the same day the strangers arrived," Storm stated sharply.

"That is true." Lhaeo said.

"Was it possible that Elminster did not trust the strangers and was attempting to protect you from them?" Storm asked.

Lhaeo hesitated for a moment, Storm's words striking him like a blow. "I don't think so," the scribe said slowly. "No, that would not have been like him."

"Yet you rarely accompanied him on his many ventures throughout the Realms. Why was that?"

Drawing a sharp breath, the scribe looked away from the bard. "I don't know," he said softly.

"I have nothing further to ask." Storm turned away from the glaring green eyes of the scribe. Thurbal gripped the handle of his walking stick, his fingers caressing the dragon skull of the handle. Perspiration trickled down his face as he spoke.

"Why did Elminster allow Midnight and Adon to stay at his tower?" Thurbal said.

"Elminster trusted them and felt they would be of valuable assistance in the Battle of Shadowdale," Lhaeo said.

"Elminster told you this?" Thurbal asked.

"Aye, and he allowed Midnight to assist him in the casting of many spells as the cleric researched mystical tomes."

"Did he seem frightened or suspicious of Midnight and Adon in any way?" Thurbal inquired.

"No," Lhaeo said. "Not at all. Quite the opposite."

Biting his lip, Thurbal asked his next question. "Is the goddess Mystra dead?"

Storm rose up to shout in protest, but Mourngrym silenced her and ordered the scribe to answer the question.

"According to Elminster, a horrible fate befell the goddess. Whether or not she is dead, I cannot say." Lhaeo sighed and hung his head.

"When Midnight arrived with her claims of a message from the goddess, Elminster did not laugh or send her away," Thurbal stated flatly. "He was convinced of her integrity and dedication to the Realms." Both Thurbal and the scribe remained silent for a moment.

"If you have nothing else to ask, Thurbal, I think we've heard enough from this witness," Mourngrym said.

Lhaeo quietly left the stand and returned to his seat. Storm moved forward and called a burly guardsman with hazel eyes named Irak Dontaele.

"Your patrol was on duty the night of the attack against the Temple of Tymora. You were the first to enter the temple and discover the bodies of the worshipers and the desecration of the temple itself," Storm said.

"No," Irak growled. "Not true." Quickly he rushed past the other guards, grabbed Adon by his robes, and lifted the cleric up off his knees. "This one was there before any of us!"

"Put him down!" Mourngrym said, and the crossbows of the guards who stood behind the prisoners were suddenly leveled at the witness. Adon's dull eyes swam in their sockets as he was lowered reluctantly to the ground. "What is the meaning of this, Storm? Are you trying to show some connection between the attacks on the two temples?"

"There's the connection!" Storm cried, pointing at Adon. "This man was present both times. They say he is a cleric of Sune, the Goddess of Beauty, yet look at his face. Even without the ugliness of his scar, he is hardly what one would expect. I submit that Adon of Sune and Midnight of Deepingdale are allies of the Black Lord, and their true allegiance is to that evil god and the city of Zhentil Keep. That is why they murdered Elminster!"

A roar erupted from the crowd. "Kill them!" someone cried.

"Yes!" screamed a woman. "Death to the servants of Lord Bane!"

Mourngrym struggled to maintain his composure. "Enough!" he ordered.

"No!" Storm cried, turning to face Lord Mourngrym. "What names did the adventurers give to the guards when they first arrived in the dale?"

Kelemvor winced. When they had arrived in Shadowdale, they had used a false charter to gain admission to the town. The fighter had been certain that the matter would be forgotten in the chaos caused by Bane's attack.

"They used false names… a stolen charter. If my words are untrue," Storm shouted, "why hasn't the cleric said anything in his own defense?" Storm now stood directly over Adon. "Speak, murderer! Tell us what you've done!"

Adon didn't look up to meet the bard's fiery gaze. He simply looked straight ahead and whimpered. "Sune," he said simply, and then he was silent once more.

"Thurbal, have you any witnesses to call?" Mourngrym inquired.

"I call Kelemvor Lyonsbane," Thurbal said, and the fighter was escorted forward from the crowd. "You led the eastern defenses near Krag Pool, where Bane's army suffered the greatest number of casualties and the decisive victory against our enemies was won. Yet you entered Shadowdale at the same time as the prisoners, and in their company. Tell us briefly how you know the accused."

"Midnight and Adon are of stout heart, and their loyalty to the Dales and to the Realms should not be questioned," Kelemvor said confidently.

"Tell him to answer the question," Storm snapped, turning to Mourngrym.

Kelemvor examined the striking, silver-haired woman. His gaze locked on her blue-gray eyes as he told the tale of his first meeting with Midnight in Arabel and the quest that eventually led them to the Dales.

"So this was a business arrangement," Thurbal stated. "You didn't know her before you met in Arabel."

"No, I didn't," Kelemvor said. "But I've come to know her very well since then."

"He's a consummate mercenary," Storm said. "He does nothing without some form of reward."

Passing his fingers over his mouth, Mourngrym spoke. "If you had not been called, Kelemvor Lyonsbane, if you had been forced to volunteer to testify on Midnight's behalf, would you have spoken for her?"

The fighter shook, his face growing dark. To lie in Midnight's favor would be an unselfish act he had not been paid for. And that would trigger the curse.

"Answer the question," Mourngrym said.

Kelemvor glanced at Midnight, and her eyes were wide with fear. With a heavy heart, Kelemvor turned back to Mourngrym. "I could not," he said.

"No further questions," Thurbal snapped, turning away from the fighter in disgust. Storm simply smiled and dismissed Kelemvor.

The fighter said nothing as he was led back to the crowd. Cyric stared at Kelemvor as he walked past. The thief saw the look of defeat in his friend's eyes. For some reason, it made Cyric feel a little better to know that Kelemvor now realized he was right about the dalesmen.

"This day grows long, Thurbal." Mourngrym folded his hands upon the lectern. "Have you any other witnesses?"

"Only you, milord," Thurbal said softly.

Mourngrym stared at the older man. "Are you well? Have you taken leave — "

"I call Mourngrym Amcathra," Thurbal pronounced distinctly. "By the laws of the Dales, you cannot refuse to testify unless you wish to declare this trial at an end and release the prisoners."

The eyes of the dalelord turned wild with anger, but Mourngrym nodded and said in an even voice, "Very well. Ask me what you will."

"Where was Lord Bane throughout the battle for Shadowdale?" Thurbal asked.

Mourngrym cocked his head slightly. "I don't understand."

"Bane led the attack through the forest from Voonlar. Our scouts can verify this. I will summon them if you wish." Thurbal leaned against the lectern as a coughing fit overcame him.

"That won't be necessary," Mourngrym said. "Bane led the attack."

"At Krag Pool, before the defenders of the dale toppled the trees upon Bane's army, the Black Lord vanished," Thurbal stated calmly. "There are dozens of witnesses I can present to verify this as well."

"Go on," Mourngrym said impatiently.

"The next time Bane was sighted, it was at the crossroads, near the farm of Jhaele Silvermane. The Black Lord appeared before you, Mourngrym Amcathra, and attempted to slay you. Mayheir Hawksguard pushed you aside and was fatally wounded in your stead. Is that correct?"

"Aye," Mourngrym replied. "Hawksguard died nobly in the defense of the Dales."

"Where did Lord Bane go after that?" Thurbal asked. "Weren't you quite vulnerable? Could he have not slain you then and there, despite Hawksguard's sacrifice?"

"I don't know," Mourngrym mumbled uncomfortably. "Perhaps."

"But he didn't. He vanished again," Thurbal said. "Bane's attentions must have been drawn elsewhere." The captain was seized by another coughing fit. Mourngrym drummed his fingers nervously on the lectern.

"I'm all right," Thurbal said, and he drew a breath before continuing. "Now, where was Elminster throughout the battle for Shadowdale?"

"At the Temple of Lathander," Mourngrym replied.

"Why?" Thurbal asked. "Why was he not at the front lines using his magic to help repel Bane?"

Mourngrym shook his head. He had no answer.

"Didn't Elminster tell you repeatedly that the true battle would take place in the Temple of Lathander?" Thurbal asked.

"Aye, but he never explained what he meant by that statement," Mourngrym said. "Perhaps he had foreseen the danger to the prisoners and wished to draw them away from the true battle — "

Thurbal held up his hand. "I suggest that the true battle was at the temple, that Bane went there, and it was he who murdered Elminster the sage."

Storm stood up and threw her arms over her head. "All this is complete speculation. There isn't a bit of evidence to suggest Bane was at the Temple of Lathander."

Thurbal grimaced and turned to Mourngrym. "Before you can convict the prisoners, you must show a motive for their actions. Storm Silverhand claims they were agents of Bane. Yet there is no proof to support such allegations. I spoke to the prisoner, Midnight, before the trial, and she claims — "

Mourngrym raised his fist. "I don't care what she claims!" he snapped. "She is a powerful mage, powerful enough to slay Elminster. My orders were explicit: She was not to be allowed to speak to anyone!"

"Then how is she to defend herself?" Thurbal yelled.

"How do any of us know that she did not ensorcel you when you spoke, bending your will to hers?" Storm asked. "You are hopelessly trusting, my friend, and for your own sake, you should be removed as counsel."

"You cannot!" Thurbal yelped and moved to Mourngrym's side.

"You're wrong. I cannot let you be injured again by Bane's servants." Mourngrym gestured to a pair of guards. "See that Thurbal is well provided for. He is obviously fighting off the effects of powerful magic. Whatever guards were present when Midnight spoke should be relieved of duty, pending my later judgment. Take him away."

Thurbal cried out in protest, but he was too weak to stave off the guards that dragged him away.

Addressing the court, Mourngrym stepped out from behind the lectern. "I have seen all that I need to," Mourngrym said. "Elminster the sage was our friend and our loyal defender to the death. It was his blind trust in others that led to his demise. Yet we of this court are not blind. Our eyes are open wide, and we can see the truth.

"Lord Bane was a coward. He ran from the battle in fear when our forces overwhelmed his army. That is why we cannot account for his whereabouts. If Elminster were alive, he would appear before us now. But that cannot happen. There is nothing we can do to bring Elminster back, but we can put his tortured soul to rest by punishing his murderers."

The audience chamber had grown completely silent again. Mourngrym paused a moment and looked back at the noblemen seated behind the dais. Like the rest of the room, the nobles were staring at the dalelord, waiting for his verdict.

"I decree that at dawn tomorrow, in the courtyard of the Twisted Tower, Midnight of Deepingdale and Adon of Sune will be put to death for the murder of Elminster the sage. Guards, remove the prisoners." Mourngrym stood back, and guards grabbed Midnight and Adon and pulled them to their feet. The crowd erupted in a roar of cheering.

At first Cyric was swallowed up by the crowd, but the thief fought his way through the blood-crazed villagers in time to see Midnight and Adon exit the courtroom under heavy guard.

Justice will be served, Mourngrym had said. The words of Shadowdale's ruler echoed in Cyric's thoughts as he maneuvered past the remaining guards standing in Mourngrym's vicinity. As he drew closer to the dalelord, Cyric thought about exactly how quickly he could draw his dagger and slit Mourngrym's throat.

Mourngrym Amcathra felt a slight rush of air at his back, but when he turned to see what had caused the breeze, he saw only the back of a lean, dark-haired man vanishing into the crowd.

Once again lost in the throng of excited townspeople, Cyric contemplated why he had changed his mind at the last instant and spared the life of the man who had condemned Midnight to death. There were better ways to honor his debt to Midnight and make these contemptuous imbeciles pay, Cyric thought. Besides, the crowd would have torn me to pieces. And I'm not ready to die quite yet.

Quite the opposite, the thief thought. Quite the opposite.

The God of the Dead reached for the shard of red energy with his bony right hand. The fallen god chuckled softly as he held the fragment next to the foot-tall obsidian statue of a man he clutched in his left hand. There was a flash of brilliant white light as the statue absorbed the energy, and Lord Myrkul looked at the faceless figurine. A red mist swirled inside it violently.

"Yes, Lord Bane," the God of the Dead rasped through cracked, black lips. "We will have you whole again soon enough." Myrkul chuckled once more and stroked the smooth head of the statue as if it were a small child. The mist pulsed with an angry red light.

Myrkul looked around and sighed. Faint images of the real world hung in the air around him. The farmer's home in which he stood was dark, dirty, and bleak. The low-beamed ceiling was black from the greasy smoke of the peasants' cooking fires. Rats occasionally scurried across the floor, racing between the legs of the warped wooden tables and splintering benches. Two people lay asleep under stained furs.

Lord Myrkul, the God of Decay as well as the God of the Dead, rather liked this place. It was like a tiny, unintentional shrine to him. In fact, it upset Myrkul that he couldn't experience it fully. For Myrkul was in the Border Ethereal Plane, an area parallel to the plane where the Realms and its people existed. From the Border Ethereal, the things Myrkul saw around him — the furniture; the vermin; the grimy, sleeping peasants — appeared only as phantasms. And if the snoring farmer and his wife had been awake, they wouldn't have been able to see or hear Myrkul.

"If only they could see me," the skeletal man complained to the black statue. "I could frighten them to death. How pleasant that would be." Myrkul paused for a moment to consider the effects his avatar's visage, complete with rotting, jaundiced skin and burning, empty eye sockets, would have on the humans. "Their corpses would make this hovel complete."

Energy crackled and arced from the figurine. "Yes, Lord Bane. The last shard of your being isn't far from here," the God of the Dead hissed. Myrkul cast one glance back at the hovel as he walked through the insubstantial walls. When he got outside into the ghostly moonlight that shone down upon the countryside south of Hillsfar, the God of the Dead shuddered. The filthy hut was much more to his liking.

Pulling the hood of his thick black robe over his head, Lord Myrkul stepped into the air as if he were climbing an invisible staircase. Gravity had no effect on him in the Border Ethereal, and it was easier to see his prize if he looked for it from a vantage point high above the ghostly hills and houses. After he had climbed a hundred yards or so straight up, Myrkul could see the final fragment of Lord Bane glowing in the distance.

"There lies the rest of the God of Strife." Myrkul held the statue up and faced it toward the pulsing shard that rested over a mile away. Tiny bolts of red and black lightning shot from the figurine and bit into the God of the Dead's hands. Slivers of pain raced up the avatar's arm, and Myrkul could smell burning flesh.

"If I drop you, Lord Bane, you will plummet back into the Prime Material Plane, back into the Realms." The tiny arcs of lightning grew smaller. "And I will not help you to recover the last piece of your essence. You will be unwhole — trapped inside this statue."

Myrkul smiled a rictus grin as the lightning ceased and the statue became black once more. "I am pleased to serve you, Lord Bane, but I will not be goaded into action." When the figurine remained dark, the God of the Dead started walking toward the shard of Bane's essence. After an hour, the fallen deities reached their destination.

This fragment of the God of Strife resembled a huge, bloody snowflake, almost three feet wide. It was larger and far more complex than any of the other pieces Myrkul had recovered. How odd, the skeletal figure thought. Each shard is different. This one is the most intricate yet. I wonder if it could be his soul…

The God of the Dead shrugged and held the statue next to the snowflake. As before, there was a brilliant flash of light as the shard disappeared into the figurine. This time, however, the statue continued to glow brightly, pulsing red and black in a quickening pattern. Myrkul narrowed his eyes in pain as a loud, high-pitched shriek tore through his brain.

I am alive! the God of Strife screamed in Myrkul's mind. I am whole again! A pair of burning eyes and a leering, fanged mouth suddenly appeared on the smooth face of the statue.

"Please, Lord Bane, not so loud. You are giving me a splitting headache," the God of the Dead rasped. "I am pleased my plan succeeded."

How did you find me? How did you know I wasn't destroyed?

"I was monitoring the battle in Shadowdale as best I could. When that debased form of Lady Mystra appeared in the temple, it became clear to me that we gods cannot be destroyed, but merely dispersed." Lord Myrkul smiled. "And so, when your avatar was destroyed, I tracked one of the shards of your being into the Border Ethereal and started searching for the others there as well." The God of the Dead tilted his head slightly and tried to look into the obsidian statue. "Are you quite whole now?"

Yes, Myrkul, I'm fine. Do you understand what you've done? The voice inside Myrkul's head was growing loud again, and the God of the Dead winced at the noise. You've crossed into the Planes! You've beaten Lord Ao! We have escaped from the Realms, and now we can go home and claim our true power! The eyes on the statue were wide with excitement.

"No, Lord Bane, I'm afraid we cannot. I was ready to give up when I discovered that you had been blown into the ether. I thought that Lord Ao had blocked all the existing planes from us." Myrkul rubbed his rotting chin with a bony hand. "I was wrong."

Wrong?

"Yes," Myrkul sighed. "As my high priest pointed out, none of the gods live in the Border Ethereal, so Ao had no reason to stop us from entering it. Of course, with magic being so unstable, three of my wizards died trying to locate all the fragments of your being and send me here to recover them." The God of the Dead bowed slightly, and all the vertebrae in his back cracked. "But I could not let you suffer here."

Please, Myrkul, spare me your flattery. After all, you need me to force my way into the heavens so you can follow.

Myrkul scowled. For a moment, he considered journeying farther into the Border Ethereal and dropping the statue into the Deep Ethereal, a place of swirling colors and mighty vortices. Bane would never make it back to the Realms — or his home — from there. But the thought lasted only a second.

Bane was right. Myrkul did need him. But not because the God of the Dead lacked courage or initiative. Myrkul wanted the God of Strife to lead the assault on the heavens because it was very dangerous, and it wouldn't do at all for the God of the Dead to be destroyed.

So Myrkul grinned obsequiously and again gave a slight bow to the obsidian statue. "Of course you are correct, Lord Bane. Let us exit this place so that we may find you a new avatar and proceed with your plans."

How will we return to the Realms?

"It seems that magic is more stable outside the Prime Material Plane. I should be able to cast a spell to send us home without error." The God of the Dead held the statue close to his face and smiled once more, so wide this time that the decaying skin at the sides of his mouth tore slightly. "I only await your command."