Avatar - Tantras Part 22

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why not?" Midnight asked.

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

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

"Then let's go," Midnight said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The young man shook his head and pointed to Midnight .

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

Morgan looked up at the sky and sighed again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"One of who?" Midnight asked irritably.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cyric is alive.

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

XIII.

DARK HARVEST.

Outside the Lazy Moon Inn, Kelemvor stood face to face with Midnight as the heroes said their farewells. The mage kissed the green-eyed fighter for the fifth and final time then brushed the hair from his face. Kelemvor stared into her dark and beautiful eyes, and felt a chill.

I couldn't stand to lose her again, the fighter thought, then said, "Perhaps we should stay together after all. I don't like the idea of you risking your life -"

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

Kelemvor reached up and covered Midnight 's hand with his own. "Aye," he grumbled as he kissed her fingers. "Be careful."

Midnight made a sarcastic comment and patted the fighter's face. Kelemvor watched as the mage broke from him, said goodbye to the cleric, and walked away.

Kelemvor turned to Adon. "Until we meet again," he said to the scarred cleric, though he was still watching Midnight as she walked down the street. "Adon?"

No response. Kelemvor turned and saw the cleric across the street, already losing himself in the crowd. The fighter shrugged and headed toward the docks. Kelemvor simply studied the area of the waterfront for the first few hours after he left the Lazy Moon Inn and became familiar with a few of the larger merchant s.h.i.+ps that were currently docked in Tantras.

If all else fails, we can always join up as crew on a merchant vessel, Kelemvor thought, though the idea repulsed him.

At length, Kelemvor investigated the warehouses, too, but after an hour of doors slamming in his face, the fighter gave up that line of inquiry. Instead, he walked south along the docks, gazing out at the waters of the Dragon Reach. On the horizon, a long patch of purple and blue rose toward the sky and gave way to a field of perfect blue. In all the other cities nearby, the sun was already fading.

"An odd sight isn't it?" a voice asked from behind the fighter. Kelemvor turned and faced a hazel-eyed man in a brightly colored uniform. The man was a few years younger than Kelemvor, and he sported a brownish blond beard that was immaculately trimmed. His eyebrow was a single continuous line that stretched across his face, and he had an odd, crooked smile.

"Odd? Not compared with others that I have seen recently," Kelemvor told the hazel-eyed man. "It's actually quite attractive, in a way."

"Men have been driven mad by the eternal light," the man sighed. "To many, it's worse than the blackest, vilest darkness that night ever visited upon Faerun."

The fighter smiled and thought of the horrors he had faced in the Shadow Gap, on the road to Shadowdale. "When the hills of this city rise up to crush the residents between them, then you have cause to worry."

The man laughed. "You speak with the conviction of a man who's seen such terrible things."

"That and much more," Kelemvor said, a tinge of sadness in his deep voice.

"How incredible." The hazel-eyed man held out his hand to the fighter. "My name is Linal Alprin, harbormaster of Port Tantras."

"Kelemvor Lyonsbane," the fighter answered, and grasped the outstretched hand that had been offered to him.

The harbormaster shook his head and sighed. "I've been stuck in Tantras ever since the G.o.ds came to Faerun, but I've seen things in the last few weeks that I wouldn't have believed possible a year ago."

Alprin and Kelemvor stood on the dock for a while, trading stories about the magical chaos and instability in nature each man had witnessed since Arrival. After about an hour, the harbormaster turned to the fighter and asked if he had any plans for eveningfeast.

"Well," Kelemvor told the hazel-eyed man, "I was planning to go back to the inn."

"I'll not hear of it," Alprin snapped brightly. "You're coming home to meet my wife and share a few stories over our meager table." The harbormaster paused and smiled. "That is, if you don't mind, of course."

"That would be nice," Kelemvor said. "I'm grateful."

Alprin looked around at the now-crowded docks. Two guards and a handful of sailors were staring at him. "There are venders along the avenue," he said hurriedly, pointing to the south. "Follow that road until you find a stand that sells fancy hats. Wait for me there. I need to pick up a present for my wife on the way home."

Then Alprin left the fighter and disappeared into the crowd. Kelemvor milled about the docks for ten minutes, then headed down the shop-lined avenue. The only stand that sold fine hats bore a sign that read "Messina's Elegant Boutique." The fighter felt somewhat strange standing outside the rows of beautiful women's clothing, and the occasional stare he received from the women who met in cl.u.s.ters near the shop to gossip made him even more uneasy.

Eventually, Kelemvor noticed a white-haired minstrel who busied himself at a nearby stand and occasionally glanced in the fighter's direction. Just as the fighter was about to walk to the man and question him, a beautiful, silver-haired woman stumbled into him. She seemed frightened, and a huge red welt covered the right side of her pretty face. Clinging to the fighter, she pleaded, "Help me. He's gone crazy!"

Before Kelemvor could say a word, a young man approached the woman, his hands balled into fists.

"That's my property," the man growled at Kelemvor. "Take your hands off her."

The fighter felt his lips curl back in disgust as he looked carefully at the man. Dressed in a simple brown felt outfit that bore several large stains, the man was small and mean. From his stench and his swagger, Kelemvor knew that he was also very drunk.

"Stand away," Kelemvor said, although in his head a voice screamed, The curse! What if it's not really gone? He grimaced and drove the thoughts out of his mind. Now's as good a time as any to find out, the green-eyed fighter decided.

The grubby little man stood still for a moment, shocked at the fighter's words. "You stand away," the man said. "That's my woman."

"She seems to have other ideas," Kelemvor snarled. He put his arm around the woman's waist and gently maneuvered her to his side. Then he drew his sword. The brightly polished steel blade glinted in the sunlight. "But I'll tell you what. I'll fight you for her."

The man's gaze took in the full measure of Kelemvor's blade, rose to the fighter's cold eyes, then moved to the frightened face of the silver-haired woman. The drunken man lowered his head, turned his back, and walked away. Once the little man was out of view, Kelemvor returned his sword to its sheath and faced the woman.

"I know his type," the fighter muttered. "He's frightened now, but he'll return for you." The fighter pulled out his bag of gold. Taking the woman's soft hand, he spilled a fistful of gold into her palm then gently closed her fingers. "Book pa.s.sage on the next boat heading for Ravens Bluff. You can send for your things."

A tear fell from the silver-haired woman's eye. She nodded, kissed the fighter then hurried north, vanis.h.i.+ng into the crowd. Kelemvor felt a satisfaction that he had not known since he was a young boy, since before the Lyonsbane's curse first took hold of his life. If I am still cursed, the fighter thought, it's dormant... for now, at least.

Suddenly the minstrel was beside Kelemvor, leaning in close. "Young love can be daunting," the minstrel sighed. "Still, that was a good thing you did. Not many would take an interest in the trials of a stranger."

"Good deeds can be their own reward," Kelemvor said quietly and turned to gaze at the minstrel. The old man's face was rimmed by a long, white beard and his eyes were surrounded by a patchwork of endless wrinkles.

"In Waterdeep, they tell a grand tragedy of young love and dark desire," the old man said, looking into Kelemvor's eyes. "Some call the tale's ending terribly sad. Others see the finale as gloriously happy. I could sing it to you, if you like."

The minstrel strummed his harp and opened his mouth to begin his tale. However, before he uttered a single word or played a single note, the old man stopped suddenly and held out his empty hand.

The fighter smiled and put a gold piece into the open hand. "Sing away, minstrel."

"Kelemvor!" a voice sounded, and the fighter looked to his left to see Alprin emerge from the crowd. When Kelemvor turned back to the minstrel, he saw that the old man had vanished.

"You seem troubled," Alprin noted sagely as he walked to Kelemvor's side.