Waterdeep

18 Ao Speaks

After Cyric left Blackstaff’s tower, Midnight collapsed and fell unconscious. Adon dragged himself to her side. He tore a ragged piece of cloth off the mage’s sleeve and used it to stanch the bleeding from her wound. The bandage did not work completely, but at least the flow slowed to a trickle.

As they lay on the roof, Adon watched Waterdeep’s soldiers defend the city. At first, the guard companies and watch regiments simply kept the denizens from breaking through their lines again. Then, as the attackers’ charge lost momentum, the defenders started beating the horde back. Within minutes, Waterdeep’s troops were advancing, and a short time later they were pursuing the denizens back toward the Dock Ward.

But the defeat of Myrkul’s host did little to encourage Adon. Each time he took a breath, his lungs filled with fire, and each time he exhaled, bolts of pain shot through his torso. Periodically, he fell into fits of uncontrollable coughing and wheezing. Cyric’s contemptuous kicks had broken two ribs, in addition to mangling Adon’s already injured lungs. Several times, the cleric tried to find the strength to stand and go after Cyric and the tablets. A wave of unbearable agony always forced him back to his knees.

Forty minutes later, a griffon carrying two riders approached Blackstaff’s tower and landed. A tall, black-haired man leaped off the beast, examined Kelemvor’s bloodless body, then inspected the rest of the scene. Finally, he walked over to where Adon and Midnight lay.

“What happened?” Blackstaff demanded, not bothering with introductions. The wizard had never met Adon, but he had no doubt about the cleric’s identity.

“Cyric took the—” Adon fell into a violent attack of coughing and could not finish the sentence.

After waiting a few moments for the fit to pass, Blackstaff said, “Wait right here—I’ll get something to help.”

He disappeared into his tower, then returned an instant later with two vials of murky green fluid. “This is a restorative. It will ease your pain.” He gave one to Adon, then kneeled and poured the other into Midnight’s mouth.

Adon accepted the vial and drank it down. Although he had never met Blackstaff Arunsun, the black-bearded man’s bearing left little doubt of his identity. As the mage had promised, the potion dulled the cleric’s pain and put an end to his coughing. Though Adon felt far from hardy, he found the strength to stand.

“Cyric has the Tablets of Fate!” Adon said. “You’ve got to—”

Midnight opened her eyes. “Khelben?” she said. “Do you have the tablets?” She still felt dizzy and weak, but her strength, like the cleric’s, was slowly returning.

Instead of answering Midnight’s question, the bearded mage began asking his own. “What happened to Kelemvor? Where’s Elminster?”

Midnight and Adon each tried to answer a different question simultaneously. The result was a garbled mumble.

Blackstaff held up his hand. “Let’s start from the beginning. Midnight?”

Midnight told Blackstaff about tracking Myrkul back to the wizard’s tower. She quickly explained how the Lord of the Dead had stolen the tablet from the vault, then described how they had lured the god back to the roof and destroyed him. “By the time we recovered both tablets, his denizens were closing in on your tower,” she finished. “Elminster went to the Pool of Loss to cut them off from Myrkul’s city.”

“Then Cyric attacked,” Adon said. He briefly recounted how Cyric had injured him again, killed Kelemvor, stabbed Midnight, and finally taken the tablets and left.

When the cleric was softly relating the specifics of the green-eyed fighter’s death, Midnight turned away and tried in vain to hold back her tears.

Blackstaff considered the story for a minute, then said, “I’ll go and retrieve Elminster from the Pool of Loss—”

“What about Cyric and the tablets?” Adon interrupted. “You’ve got to catch him before he reaches the Celestial Stairway!”

“Patience, Adon,” Blackstaff said calmly. “Unless he knows where the Stairway is, Cyric will not find it easily. Only people of extraordinary power can see it. We have plenty of time to locate him and recover the tablets.”

The wizard had no way of knowing that Cyric was at that moment hiking up the side of Mount Waterdeep that faced the sea. On top of the mountain, he saw a wide, ever-changing ribbon of colors he did not doubt was his destination.

Perhaps it was the fact that he possessed both of the Tablets of Fate. Perhaps, in recovering the tablets, he had established that he was as extraordinary as Blackstaff and Midnight. But whatever the reason, the Celestial Stairway had appeared to Cyric the instant he set foot on the mountain.

Back on Blackstaff’s tower, however, the bearded mage remained oblivious to Cyric’s progress. “When Elminster and I get back, we’ll recover the tablets and return them to Helm.” Although he did not say it, the wizard was concerned for his old friend’s safety. If Elminster was as tired as Blackstaff, the ancient sage could be in trouble. “For now, I’ll send someone to look after you two.”

“You can go get Elminster,” Midnight said. “But I’m going after Cyric now. You don’t know that murderer like I do.” She looked toward the Celestial Stairway, fearing in her heart that the thief was already standing at its base.

“I’m going, too,” Adon added.

“But you’re wounded!” Blackstaff objected. He pointed at the bloodstains on their clothes. “Both of you!”

“I feel well enough to fight,” Adon said. With his broken ribs, the cleric knew he would be risking further injury to his lungs. But at the moment, his own safety did not matter as much as preventing Cyric from returning the tablets.

“The potion only numbs your pain,” Blackstaff cautioned. “It does not heal your injuries. You’ll collapse the instant you exert yourselves.”

“I’ll take that chance,” Midnight growled, in no mood to wait for Elminster—or anybody else—to avenge Kelemvor’s death. She was aware of her wound, but it caused her only a little discomfort. Blackstaff’s potion was an effective one. “Do you have another dagger I can borrow?” she asked.

“And where’s my mace?” Adon muttered, struggling to keep the weakness out of his voice. Though his pain had subsided, he still felt far from strong. But he was not going to let Midnight go after Cyric alone.

Blackstaff shook his head, frustrated by their insistence. He said, “As you wish. But allow me to persuade a pair of griffon riders to lend you their wings.”

The wizard went to his rider and held a brief conversation. The griffon took to its wings and flew toward the south, then Blackstaff disappeared into his tower. A minute later, he returned with the weapon the mage had requested. Soon, two griffons landed atop his tower.

“The griffon riders will take you wherever you wish to go,” he said flatly. “But I’ve instructed them to bring you back the instant you show signs of pain. Elminster and I will return within the hour. Will you at least be here to meet us?”

Midnight glanced at the corpse on the roof, then said, “Assuming we haven’t found Cyric, yes.” She had no intention of returning if they found the thief, for all that would matter then was revenge. Looking back at Blackstaff, she added, “Thanks for your help.”

Blackstaff smiled weakly. “No … thank you. What you’ve done has benefitted us all. Good hunting!” The wizard turned back to his tower.

Midnight and Adon went to the griffons. The riders, eyeing the pair’s wounds doubtfully, helped them into the passenger saddles.

“Where to?” asked Adon.

Midnight looked at the ribbon of scintillating colors rising off Mount Waterdeep. “Whether Cyric knows it or not, he must go to the top of the mountain. It’s wisest to look up there first.”

“That’s easy enough,” said one of the riders. “We keep our griffons there.”

Five minutes later, the griffons landed just north of the mountain’s summit. A stone tower stood atop the peak, and a covered stable sat fifty feet to the east. Inside the stable were over two dozen griffons, all of which had suffered serious injury—torn wings, gashed heads, broken legs. An even greater number of men tended the beasts’ injuries. The griffons were not the only ones who had suffered. Human groans rolled out of the tower’s door, as well.

Midnight and Adon dismounted, then looked around the Peaktop Eyrie. Directly ahead, the northern ridge of Mount Waterdeep descended at a gentle grade, gradually disappearing into the magnificent temple complexes and grand villas of the city’s wealthy Sea Ward. To the east, the mountain dropped away steeply, ending in the sheer cliff that marked the western boundaries of the Castle Ward. The eight spires of Piergeiron’s Palace poked over the head of the cliff. Beyond the spires, the city of Waterdeep stretched across the benchland like a magnificent diorama, complete with smoking chimneys and fluttering flags. Behind Midnight and Adon, to the south, a series of wooden piers and granite battlements girded the murky waters of the harbor.

To the west, the peak fell away in a hundred-foot cliff. The terrain then sloped down five hundred feet to a defensive wall guarding the base of the mountain. Below the wall, a precipice plunged into the azure waters of the Sea of Swords.

But it was not what lay below the mountain that caught Midnight’s interest. A shimmering path of amber and pearl rose off the top of the peak and disappeared into the heavens. The translucent path simultaneously looked solid and immaterial.

As Midnight watched, the stairway changed from amber and pearl into a set of white steps. A moment later, it shifted again, this time becoming a ramp of pure silver. The stairway continued changing forms every few seconds.

“What are you looking at?” asked Adon. The only thing he saw to the west of the peak was a cliff.

Midnight pointed at the air above the cliff. “The Celestial Stairway,” she said.

Adon peered at the sky. He still saw nothing. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

The griffon riders showed the pair through the tower and stable, but there was no sign of Cyric. As she left the tower, Midnight concluded, “Cyric’s not here.” The mage noticed that all the walking and climbing stairs had caused her wound to bleed more heavily, and she felt a little dizzy.

“Then it will be difficult to find him,” Adon said, sitting down on the steps to the tower. Unlike Midnight, his injuries were causing him a great deal of distress. Though Blackstaff’s potion had taken the edge off the cleric’s pain, he was having trouble breathing and he felt extremely weak.

“We’ll find him,” Midnight growled. “When we do, I’ll kill him.”

The mage’s stomach stirred uneasily. She had never plotted in advance to use her magic to kill someone. To her, magic had always been a defensive shield, a means of earning respect and power, a joyful art—never a weapon to be used in anger or for vengeance.

“I won’t make the mistake of stopping you again,” Adon said, remembering bitterly that he had talked his friends into sparing Cyric’s life. He could not help being angry with himself. If he had kept quiet, Kelemvor would be alive right now. “But I’ll kill him first if I can.”

The griffon riders frowned and exchanged uneasy glances. They were accustomed to death and combat, but their charges sounded as though they were contemplating murder. Blackstaff had said nothing about the strangers being exempt from the normal laws of the city.

“I’m not sure you should be talking like that,” one of the riders said. “Blackstaff said—”

“Quiet!” Midnight hissed, looking toward the south. “Into the building, quickly!”

Cyric was standing on the south side of the summit, studying the backside of the griffon eyrie. The saddlebags containing the tablets were slung over his left shoulder, and he held his sword in his right hand.

In order to make it more difficult to see him from the streets of Waterdeep, the thief had hiked up the back side of the mountain. Then he had circled around the far side of the cliff before climbing to the summit. Though he did not expect anyone to prevent him from taking the tablets to the Celestial Stairway, it always paid to be cautious.

Cyric was glad he had been careful. From Waterdeep, he had seen that there was a tower and stable on the summit of the mountain. But he had not expected the tower to be close to the Celestial Stairway, or to find so many guardsmen milling about.

After studying the area for a few more minutes, the thief continued toward the staircase. There really was no reason for the griffon riders to stop him. Besides, even if they tried, he suspected he could rush the last hundred feet to the stairway before they could detain him.

From the tower’s door, Midnight watched Cyric advance toward the Celestial Stairway. Finally, when he was fifty feet from both the staircase and the tower, when Midnight believed Cyric could not escape, she prepared to attack.

“Now!” the mage cried, stepping out of the tower.

Adon rushed out behind her, followed by the two griffon riders. As they charged, Midnight tried to summon a death incantation, but found she was too weak. The gestures and words necessary for the spell were only blurs in her consciousness.

When Cyric heard Midnight’s cry, he did not waste time wondering why she was not dead. The thief immediately understood that despite her wound, the magic-user had found the strength to beat him to the mountaintop and set up an ambush. Reacting instantly, he sprinted toward the Celestial Stairway.

As Cyric ran, a deep voice boomed from the stairway. “No! Stop!” The words were so loud they echoed over Waterdeep like thunder.

A figure in glistening armor appeared and started down the stairs. The armored man stood nearly ten feet tall, and his body seemed stocky and powerful. His eyes were sad and compassionate, though they had a cold edge that hinted at his merciless devotion to duty. The Unsleeping Eye of Helm adorned the god’s shield.

The two guardsmen immediately stopped and kneeled. The entire complement of soldiers atop the peak came out of the tower and stable. Upon seeing Helm’s magnificent figure, they also fell on their knees and did not move. Several frightened griffons took flight.

The battle between the soldiers of Waterdeep and Myrkul’s denizens raged on, but the sight of Lord Helm further undermined the creatures’ lines. On the other hand, the brave guardsmen and watchmen were heartened by the god’s appearance over the city. Many prayed for divine intervention as they hacked their way through the routed denizen horde.

Down in Waterdeep, tens of thousands of refugees from the battle stopped what they were doing and looked toward the mountaintop. Several thousand correctly guessed that only a god could have spoken so loudly. They began drifting toward the slopes of Mount Waterdeep in the vague hope of glimpsing the speaker. Helm’s voice frightened many others, and they began seeking shelter in basements and cellars. Most citizens simply stood dumfounded and stared at the mountaintop in fear and awe.

Unlike the citizens of Waterdeep, the booming voice did not stun Cyric. He continued running toward the Celestial Stairway. The thief did not think Helm’s command was directed at him. Even if it had been, he was not about to stop until he had delivered the tablets.

The god’s command caused Adon to hesitate, but Midnight did not even pause. Cyric had killed Kelemvor and Sneakabout, had tried to kill her and Adon, and had betrayed them all. The mage did not care who commanded her to spare his life. She continued after the thief, her dagger in hand.

Helm met Cyric at the bottom of the stairway, then stepped in front of him protectively.

“This life is not yours to take,” the God of Guardians said, glaring at Midnight.

“You have no right to command me,” Midnight screamed. She slowed her pace to a walk, but continued toward Cyric.

“He must pay for his crimes,” Adon gasped, coming up behind Midnight.

“It is not my duty to judge him,” Helm said flatly.

Watching Midnight carefully, Cyric stepped to Helm’s side and gave him the saddlebags. “I have recovered the Tablets of Fate,” the thief said.

Helm accepted the artifacts. “I know who recovered them,” he replied, coldly staring into Cyric’s eyes. “As does Lord Ao.”

Adon, who could not see the reproach in Helm’s gaze, cried, “He’s lying! Cyric stole those from us, and he killed a good man to do it!”

Helm turned his craggy, emotionless face toward the cleric. “As I said, I know who recovered the tablets.”

Midnight continued toward the stairway. Her legs felt weak and unsteady. “If you are aware of Cyric’s evil, why do you accept the tablets from him?” she demanded.

“Because it is not his duty to pass judgment,” said another voice. It was hardy and resonant, without hint of anger or compassion. “Nor is it his prerogative.”

A figure two feet taller than Helm stood fifty yards up the staircase. Though his face showed no particular age—he could have been twenty or he could have been a hundred and twenty—his hair and beard were as white as alabaster. The being’s face, neither handsome nor ugly, had even, symmetrical features that would not draw notice on any street in the Realms.

However, he wore a remarkable robe that would have distinguished him in the most elaborate court in Faerûn. It fell as any cloth might, with wrinkles here and pleats there. When she looked at it, though, Midnight felt she was staring into the heavens. The robe was as black as oblivion, dotted by millions of stars and thousands of moons, all arranged in a pattern that was not quite perceivable, but which gave the whole robe a beautiful, harmonious feel. In some places, bright swirls of light lit small areas. The swirls were balanced in other areas by regions of inky darkness.

“Lord Ao!” Helm acknowledged, bowing his head in supplication.

“Bring me the Tablets of Fate,” Ao commanded.

Helm opened the saddlebags and removed the tablets. In the god’s mighty hands, the two stones looked small, almost insignificant. Helm took the tablets to Ao, then kneeled on the stairway to await further commands.

Ao studied the tablets for several minutes. In a hundred places throughout the Realms, the avatars of the surviving gods fell into a deep trance as Ao summoned their attention.

“On these artifacts,” the overlord said, sending his voice and image to all of his gods. “I have recorded the forces that balance Law and Chaos.”

“And I have returned them to you,” Cyric said, daring to meet Ao’s gaze.

Ao looked at the thief without approval or disapproval. “Yes,” he said, stacking the tablets together. “And here is what it amounts to!” The overlord of the gods crushed both tablets in his hands and ground them into dust.

Midnight cringed, expecting the heavens to come crashing down. Adon cried out in grief and astonishment. Cyric watched the dust fall from between Ao’s fingers, an angry frown creeping down his face.

Helm jumped to his feet. “Master, what have you done?” the god asked, his voice betraying his fear.

“The tablets mean nothing,” Ao said, addressing all of his gods, no matter where they were. “I kept them to remind you that I created gods to serve the Balance, not to twist it to your own ends. But this point was lost on you. You saw the tablets as a set of rules by which to play juvenile games of prestige and pomp! Then, when the rules became inconvenient, you stole them …”

“But that was—,” Helm began.

“I know who took the Tablets of Fate,” Ao replied, silencing Helm with a curt wave of his hand. “Bane and Myrkul have paid for their offenses with their lives. But all of you were guilty, causing worshipers to build wasteful temples, to devote themselves so slavishly to your name they could not feed their children, even to spill their own blood upon your corrupt altars—all so you could impress each other with your hold over these so-called inferior creatures. Your behavior is enough to make me wish I had never created you.”

Ao paused and let his listeners consider his words. Finally, he resumed speaking. “But I did create you and not without purpose. Now, I am going to demand that you fulfill that purpose. From this day forward, your true power will depend upon the number and devotion of your followers.”

From one end of the Realms to another, the gods gasped in astonishment. In far off Tsurlagoi, Talos the Raging One growled, “Depend on mortals?” The one good eye of his youthful, broad-shouldered avatar was opened wide in outrage and shock.

“Depend on them and more,” Ao returned. “Without worshipers, you will wither, even perish entirely. And after what has passed in the Realms, it will not be easy to win the faith of mortals. You will have to earn it by serving them.”

In sunny Tesiir, a beautiful woman with silky scarlet hair and fiery red-brown eyes looked as though she were going to retch. “Serve them?” Sune asked.

“I have spoken!” Ao replied.

“No!” Cyric yelled. “After all I went through—”

“Quiet!” Ao thundered, pointing a finger at the thief. “I do not care to be challenged. It makes me fear I have made a poor choice for my new god.”

Cyric’s eyes went blank and he stared at Ao in shock.

“It is the reward you sought, is it not?” Ao asked, not taking his eyes off the thief.

Cyric stumbled up the stairway. “It is indeed!” he exclaimed. “I will serve you well, I swear it. You have my gratitude!”

A deep, cruel chuckle rolled out of Ao’s throat. “Do not thank me, evil Cyric. Being God of Strife, Hatred, and Death is no gift.”

“It isn’t?” Cyric asked, furrowing his brow in puzzlement.

“You desired godhood, control over your destiny, and great power,” Ao said. “You will have only two of these—godhood and power—to exercise as you will in the Realm of the Dead. And all of the suffering in Toril will be yours as well, to cause and inflict as you wish. But you will never know contentment or happiness again.”

Ao paused then and looked at Midnight. “But the thing you have desired most, Lord Cyric, will never come to pass. I am your master now. You serve me … and your worshipers. I believe you will find that you now have less freedom than you had as a child in the alleys of Zhentil Keep.”

“Wait,” the new God of Strife cried. “I don’t—”

“Enough!” Ao boomed, turning his palm toward Cyric. “I know you will perform your duties well, for they are the only thing you are suited to.”

Midnight’s heart sank. With Cyric ruling the Realm of the Dead, she could never keep her promise to rescue Sneakabout.

“Forgive me,” the mage whispered, turning away from the stairway. “Some promises cannot be kept.” She feared Cyric had been right about the nature of life. It was a cruel, brutal experience that ended only in torment and anguish.

“Midnight!” Ao called, turning his attention to the magic-user.

At the sound of her name, Midnight slowly turned to face the master of the gods. “What is it?” she demanded defiantly. “I’m injured and fatigued.. I have lost the one man I loved. What more do you want from me?”

“You have something that has no place in the Realms,” Ao said, pointing a long finger at her.

She immediately knew he meant Mystra’s power. “Take it. I have no further use for it.”

“Perhaps you do,” Ao responded.

“I am too weary for riddles,” she snapped.

“I have lost many gods during this crisis,” Ao said. “As punishment for their theft, I will leave Bane and Myrkul dispersed. But Mystra, Lady of Mysteries and grantor of magic, is also gone. Even I cannot restore her. Will you take her place?”

Midnight looked at Cyric and shook her head. “No. That was not the reason I recovered the tablets. I have no interest in corrupting myself as Cyric did.”

“What a pity you view my offer that way,” Ao replied, gesturing at Cyric. “I have taken one mortal for his malevolence and cruelty. I had hoped to take another for her wisdom and true heart.”

Cyric snickered. “Waste no more breath on her. She lacks the courage to meet her destiny.”

“Accept!” urged Adon. “You must not let Cyric win! It is your responsibility to oppose him—” The cleric stopped, realizing that Midnight had more than fulfilled any responsibilities she had. “Forgive me,” he said. “You are as brave and as true a woman as I have ever known, and I believe you would be a worthy goddess. But I have no right to tell you what your obligations are.”

At the mention of obligations, Midnight thought of her promise to Sneakabout, then of the faithful souls waiting for deliverance in the Fugue Plain. Finally, she imagined her lover’s spirit wandering the vast white waste with millions of other dead souls. Ao’s offer might give her the means to spare Kelemvor that eternal misery, to rescue the Faithful from their undeserved torture, even to keep her promise to Sneakabout. If so, Midnight knew Adon was correct—she did have a duty to answer the overlord’s call.

“No, you’re right,” the mage said, turning to Adon. “I must go. If I don’t, the deaths of Sneakabout and Kelemvor will have meant nothing.” She took the cleric’s hands and smiled. “Thank you for reminding me of that.”

Adon smiled in return. “Without you, the future of the Realms would be very dark.”

Ao interrupted their conversation. “What is your decision, Midnight?”

The mage quickly kissed Adon on the cheek. “Good-bye,” she said.

“I’ll miss you,” the cleric replied.

“No you won’t,” Midnight said, a smile crossing her lips. “I’ll be with you always.” She quickly turned and stepped onto the stairway, which had become a path of diamonds, and went to stand opposite Cyric.

Addressing Ao, she said, “I accept.” Then she turned to Cyric and added, “And I’m going to make you regret your betrayals for the rest of eternity.”

For an instant, Cyric was afraid of Midnight’s threat. Then, the thief remembered that he knew the mage’s true name, Ariel Manx. He smiled weakly and wondered if that would have any power over Midnight now that she was a goddess.

Ao lifted his hands. The Celestial Stairway and everything on it disappeared in a column of light. The brilliant pillar blinded Adon and the thousands of citizens who had been looking at the top of Mount Waterdeep in that instant.

In sunny Tesiir, Tsurlagoi, Arabel, and in a hundred other cities where the gods had taken shelter, similar pillars of light flared and rose into the heavens. Finally, in Tantras, where the God of Duty had fallen against Bane, the scattered shards of Torm’s lion-headed avatar rose off the ground and drifted back together. A golden pillar of light shot out over the sea, then rose into the heavens, and Torm also returned home.