Shadowdale (36 page)

But Cyric wasn’t much in the mood for the fighters’ jokes, so he left the throne room quietly. The halls of the Twisted Tower rang with activity as the thief made his way back to his room to prepare for eveningfeast.

After he changed his clothes, the thief turned to leave his room. As he walked toward the door, his boot slid across a slick patch of wood on the floor. He regained his balance, then looked down. Had one of the clumsy cows they called ‘serving girls’ in the tower made a mess she was too dainty to clean up? Cyric wondered. There, in the center of the room, was a stain that looked like blood.

Cyric’s fingers trembled as he reached down and touched the red stain. He smeared his finger in the liquid, then touched his finger to his tongue, just to see what the liquid was.

Something exploded in his skull, and Cyric felt his body fall backward into the far wall, then land on the bed. He was dimly aware of the damage he had caused to the wall and to himself, but his perceptions swam in a fantastic haze of sights and sounds. The thief was finding it hard to tell his delusions from reality.

He was only certain that someone else was entering the room, closing the door, and locking it.

And before he passed out, Cyric realized that the man was laughing.

The next thing the thief was aware of was an odd taste in his mouth, like bitter almonds. His throat was dry, and sweat poured into his eyes. The sound of his own breathing came to him: raspy and without steady rhythm. His skin felt as if it had been flayed. Sight and sound returned suddenly, and he found himself lying upon his bed. A gray-haired man sat on the edge of the bed, facing away from Cyric.

“Don’t try to move yet,” the man said. “You’ve had quite a shock.”

Cyric attempted to speak, but his throat was raw and he began to cough, which only caused a greater pain.

“Settle back,” the man said. Cyric felt as if something were pressing him back against the bed. “We have much to discuss. You won’t be able to raise your voice above a whisper, but don’t worry. My senses are quite acute.”

“Marek,” Cyric croaked. The voice was unmistakable. “It can’t be! You were arrested in Arabel.”

Marek turned to face Cyric. He shrugged. “I escaped. Have you ever heard of a dungeon that could hold me?”

“What are you doing here?” Cyric said, ignoring the man’s boasts.

“Well…,” Marek said, and rose from the bed. “I was on my way back to Zhentil Keep. I grew tired on the road. My documentation — the same documentation that gave me access to Arabel — was taken from a soldier outside Hillsfar. A professional mercenary, actually. He won’t be missed.

“I claimed that I was on my way back to rejoin the conflict between Hillsfar and Zhentil Keep, which I assumed the people of Shadowdale would see as a worthwhile enterprise. My cover, I was certain, was assured. I didn’t know that Shadowdale was preparing for a war of their own with Zhentil Keep, and the guards demanded I join their damned army!”

“What happened to your cache of magical items that you bragged about in Arabel? Couldn’t you have used them to escape the guard?” Cyric said.

“I was forced to leave almost all of them behind in Arabel,” Marek said. “Are you expecting me to attack you? Don’t be foolish. I’m here to talk.”

“How did you get into the Tower?”

“I walked in through the front door. Remember, I’m a member of the guard now.”

“But how did you know I was here?”

“I didn’t. This is all chance, as all of life really is. As the guards tried to convince me that joining their army, even if it wasn’t my own idea, would be beneficial for me, they described a small adventuring troop that came to the dale and was welcomed into the Twisted Tower itself for their aid to the town. Amazingly enough, part of the party sounded very much like the band you left Arabel with. It really wasn’t hard to find you after that.

“By the way, I apologize for the effects of the potion that laid you out. Actually, there was one magical item I had managed to retain — this locket,” Marek said, and produced a solid gold locket that had been opened. A drop of red liquid that resembled blood fell from it and hit the floor. The liquid hissed as it touched the boards.

“I was shown to your room earlier today and told that I could wait for a few moments. When you didn’t arrive, I became bored. I noticed that the catch on the locket seemed as if it might break. When I examined it, it did break and the potion spilled to the floor. And that’s when you came in. Actually, I wasn’t sure that it was you at first, so I hid in the closet. Then you tasted the potion, and, well, here you are.”

“What do you intend to do?” Cyric said. “Will you expose me, as you did in Arabel?”

“Certainly not,” Marek said. “If I do that, what’s to stop you from exposing me? That, you see, is the reason for my visit. I merely wished for you to maintain your silence until after the battle.”

“Why?”

“During the battle. I’ll make my escape. Switch sides. Return to Zhentil Keep with the victors.”

“The victors,” Cyric said absently.

Marek laughed. “Look around you, Cyric. Do you have any idea how many men Zhentil Keep has mustered? Despite the preparations, and despite the advantage of the woods between here and Voonlar, Shadowdale doesn’t have a chance. If you had any intelligence, you’d follow me out of here, follow right in my footsteps.”

“So you have told me,” Cyric said.

“I offer you salvation,” Marek said.” I offer you a chance to return to the life that you were born for.”

“No,” Cyric said. “I’ll never go back.”

Marek shook his head sadly. “Then you will die on this battlefield. And for what? Is this your fight? What is your stake in all of this?”

“Something you wouldn’t understand,” Cyric said. “My honor.”

Marek couldn’t contain his laughter. “Honor? What honor is there in being a nameless, faceless corpse left to rot on a battlefield? Your days away from the Guild have left you a fool. I’m ashamed that I ever thought of you as a son!”

Cyric turned white. “What do you mean?”

“Just what I said! Nothing more. I took you in as a boy. Raised you. Taught you all you know.” Marek sneered. “This is pointless. You’re too old to change. So am I.”

Marek turned to leave. “You were right, Cyric.”

“About what?”

“In Arabel, when you said I acted on my own. You were right. The Guild doesn’t care whether or not you ever return. It was only me that wanted you back. They’d have forgotten long ago that you ever existed had it not been for my insistence that we try to draw you back.”

“And now?”

“Now I no longer care,” Marek said. “You are nothing to me. No matter what the outcome of this battle, I never want to see you again. Your life is your own. Do as you will.”

Cyric said nothing.

“The effects of the potion are disorienting. You might experience some delirium before your fever breaks.” Marek took the locket and left it beside Cyric on the bed. “I wouldn’t want you to dismiss our conversation as a fever dream in the morning.”

Marek’s hand had just closed over the doorknob when he heard movement from Cyric’s bed. “Lay back down, Cyric. You’ll hurt yourself,” he said, just as Cyric’s dagger entered his back.

The thief watched as his former mentor fell to the floor. Moments later Mourngrym and Hawksguard appeared at Cyric’s door, along with a pair of guards.

“A spy,” Cyric said hoarsely. “Tried to poison me… Came back to question me in return for the antidote. I killed him and took it.” Mourngrym nodded. “You have served me well already, it seems.”

The body was removed, and Cyric climbed back into bed. For a time, he was poised on the brink of fantasy as the poison from the locket coursed through his system. He seemed to be trapped, half awake, half asleep, and visions ran through his head.

He was a child on the streets of Zhentil Keep, alone, running from his parents as they sought to sell him into slavery to pay off their debts. Then he was standing before Marek and the Thieves’ Guild as they passed judgement on him, a ragged, bloodied youth they had found on the streets, robbing to survive; their judgement made him a part of the Guild.

But of course Marek turned away when Cyric needed him the most — when he was marked for execution by the Guild and forced to flee Zhentil Keep.

Turning away.

Always turning away.

Hours passed and Cyric rose from the bed. The red haze lifted from before his eyes. His blood had cooled, his breathing became regular. He was too exhausted to stay awake, so he simply collapsed on the bed again and surrendered to the tender embrace of deep, dreamless sleep.

“I’m free,” he whispered in the darkness. “Free…”

Adon left Elminster’s abode late at night, at the same time as the scribe, Lhaeo. The old man had actually shown concern over Lhaeo’s well-being as he sent the man off to contact the Knights of Myth Drannor. Magical communication with the east had been blocked, and armed with Elminster’s wards, the scribe would have to travel by horse to deliver the message to the Knights.

“Till we meet again,” Elminster said, and watched his scribe ride off.

On the other hand, Adon simply walked away, without raising a single word or gesture from the sage. He was halfway down the walk before Midnight caught up to him, and gave him a small purse of gold.

“What is this for?” Adon said.

Midnight smiled. “Your fine silks have been ruined during our journey,” she said. “You should replace them.”

She pressed the gold into the cleric’s cold hands and attempted to warm them between hers. The breathless excitement she had felt all day was painfully apparent to the cleric. Besides attempting to fathom the answers to some of the mysteries that had plagued her all during the journey, Elminster had allowed Midnight to participate in some minor rites of conjuring. There were many instances however, when even Midnight had been shut out of Elminster’s private ceremonies that evening.

The darkness had already enveloped Adon when Midnight called out, reminding him to return in the morning.

Adon almost laughed. They had set him in a tiny room and given him volume after volume of ancient lore to read so he might attempt to find some reference to the pendant Midnight had been given. It was a gift of the goddess, Adon argued. Forged from the fires of her imagination. It had not existed before she called it into being!

“But what if it had?” Elminster said, eyes gleaming. But Adon was not blind. Interspersed in the lore he had been given were tales about clerics who had lost their faith, then regained it.

They would never understand, Adon thought. His fingers touched the scar that lined his face and he spent the evening reliving their journey, attempting to spot exactly where he had committed such an affront against his goddess to warrant her desertion in his greatest time of need.

By the time he noticed where he was, Adon was startled to find how far he had traveled. He was long past the Twisted Tower, and the sign for the Old Skull Inn was just overhead. The gold Midnight had given him was still clutched in his palm, and he slipped it into one of his pockets before he entered the three-story building.

The taproom was crowded and filled with smoke. Adon had worried that he would find dancing and merriment, but he was relieved to find the people of Shadowdale as preoccupied with their thoughts as he was. Most of the inn’s customers were soldiers or mercenaries, come to the Old Skull to kill time before the battle. Adon noticed a young couple who stood off to the far end of the bar, laughing at some private joke.

Adon sat with one elbow on the bar, resting his face in his open hand, trying to cover the scar.

“What spirits will you be wrestling with tonight?”

Adon looked up and saw a woman in her mid-fifties, with a pleasant, robust glow in her cheeks. She stood behind the bar and waited patiently for the cleric to respond. When his sole communication was a wounded, dying flicker from his once fiery eyes, she grinned and vanished behind the bar. When she returned, she carried a glass filled with a rich, violet brew that sparkled and sputtered in the light. Bits of red and amber ice whirled around in the drink, refusing to come to the surface.

“Try this,” she said. “It’s the house special.”

Adon lifted the drink, and a sweet aroma drifted to his nose. He squinted at the drink, and the woman gestured encouragingly. Adon took a swallow, and felt every drop of blood in his body turn to ice. His skin pulled taut against his bones and a raging fire burned its way through his chest. With trembling fingers he attempted to set the drink down, and the woman grinned as she helped him in the task.

Adon’s breathing was heavy, his head spinning, when he asked, “What in Sune’s name is in that!?”

The woman shrugged. “A little of this, a little of that. A lot of something else.”

Adon rubbed his chest and tried to catch his breath.

“I’m Jhaele Silvermane,” the woman said. “And who are —”

Adon heard a slight hiss from the bar. One of the ice cubes was dissolving, and amber bands drifted through the liquid. “Adon of Sune,” Adon heard himself say, then wished he could take it back.

“Nasty cut there, Adon of Sune. There are powerful healers in the Temple of Tymora who may be able to help you. They have quite a collection of healing potions. Have you visited them yet?”

Adon shook his head.

“How did you come by such a mark? Accident or design?”

Adon’s flesh tingled. “Design?” he said.

“Many a warrior would wear such a mark as a badge of courage, of lawful service.” Her eyes were bright and clear. She meant every word of what she said.

“Aye,” the cleric said sarcastically. “It was something like that.”

Adon gripped the glass once more and took another drink. This time his head became slightly numb, and there was a buzz in his ears. Then that sensation passed, too.

“A toast!” someone shouted. The voice was dangerously close. Adon turned to see a complete stranger raising a flagon above his head. The stranger wore a grizzled mane of stringy hair, and he seemed to be the veteran of many conflicts. His huge hand reached out and clasped Adon’s shoulder.