"And my lady is trapped within that unholy place, a prisoner for all time unless you three can rescue her!" Caitlan had become increasingly pale as she spoke, and beads of sweat had appeared on her forehead.
Adon looked away and saw that the serving girl who had smiled at him was drawing closer. She was petite, with flaming red hair that reminded him of Sune herself. She carried a tray filled with drinks and stopped at the table nearby.
Suddenly he remembered their conversation from two nights before, when he met her as a fellow patron at the High Moon Inn. Adon liked the company at that inn, and the girl's wages were too low for her to think of indulging herself in the fineries of the Pride of Arabel.
"Adon," she said, taking in his full measure.
He could not remember her name. "My dear."
A moment later Adon was on the floor, the impact of the serving tray still ringing in his ears. "Fine advice you gave me, you lout! Demand equal pay! Fair treatment as a person and not merely a serving wench to be ogled at and fondled by the rich drunkards in their fancy clothes who pass through these doors!"
Adon attempted to shake some sense into his rattled brain and failed. Yes, the words certainly sounded like his…
"The conversation was not a success?" the cleric said quietly.
The serving girl trembled with rage. "I lost my place in line to become the next fine lady of the inn, wife to the innkeeper. A life of luxury thrown away because of you!"
She threw down the tray and Adon was careful this time to avoid it. The serving girl stormed off and Adon regarded his companions.
"How soon can we leave?" Adon said, then accepted Cyric's helping hand.
"Well met," Cyric said, his smile hidden no longer.
"We must take into account more than our haste to take flight and our desire for adventure," Kelemvor said. "Even though magic is untrustworthy, we should bring a mage along on this journey."
Cyric frowned. "Yes, I suppose you're right. But who?"
After a moment, Adon said, "What about Lord Aldophus? He is a sage of great repute, and firm friends with King Azoun."
"'Curious happenstances abound — and all burning Hell breaks loose,'" Cyric said quietly, repeating the phrase Aldophus coined, a phrase whose meaning had taken on a new, somewhat darker significance than the sage had intended when first he uttered those words.
"Aldophus is a dabbler in the physical sciences." All heads turned to stare at the dark-haired woman who stood before the adventurers. "I doubt heartily the practice of divining the qualities of base metals and simple dirt will be of much help where the lot of you intend to tread."
Kelemvor sneered. "I suppose you could do better?"
The woman raised an eyebrow and Kelemvor studied her face. Her eyes were a deep and fathomless black, with flecks of scarlet that danced within. Her skin was deeply tanned, and he guessed she was from the South. Her lips were full and as red as blood, and a cool smile had etched itself upon her intriguing face, which was itself framed by long black hair that had been braided.
She was tall for a woman, slightly taller than Kelemvor, and she wore a cloak that allowed only a glimpse at a beautiful blue-white star pendant she wore beneath. Her clothing was a deep violet in color, and two large books, bound together by a leather strap, had been slung over her shoulder.
This is man's business, Kelemvor thought, and she's interfering. He started to tell her that, but cried out as his tankard split apart and a dragon made of bluish white fire with a wingspan the size of a man suddenly leaped into existence with a roar that seized the attention of all the inn's guests. The dragon opened its jaws and revealed its fangs, which appeared as sharp as daggers. Then the creature reared up and rushed forward with the sole intent, Kelemvor was certain, of snapping off his head, thus ending the bloodline of the Lyonsbanes.
The swiftness and fury of the monster prevented Kelemvor from drawing his sword in time, and the dragon could easily have killed the fighter in an instant. But, suddenly, the creature stopped, let out an unearthly belch, and vanished completely.
Kelemvor's seat was in pieces on the floor beneath him, and he sat, legs spread, sword before him, heart racing, eyes darting back and forth, when the woman grinned and let out a yawn. Kelemvor looked up sharply.
"Do better?" she said, repeating the fighter's snide comment. "I suppose I could at that." Then she pulled up a chair. "I am Midnight of Deepingdale."
Swords found their sheaths, axes their proper places, bolts were removed from crossbows, and a general calm fell over the inn.
"A mere illusion! We need a magic-user, not an illusionist!" But Kelemvor's throaty laugh was cut short by the sight of the table where the fire dragon had appeared: the heavy oak had been scorched.
Such control of magic was startling, especially from a woman, Kelemvor thought. Perhaps it was an accident.
Kelemvor used his sword for leverage and rose to his feet. Before the thought to return his sword to its sheath occurred to him, an all too familiar voice rang out.
"Nay! My eyes must deceive me! Surely it is not Kelemvor the Mighty come to grace this poor inn with his magnificent presence!"
Kelemvor rose, sword at the fore, and looked for the laughing face of the mercenary, Thurbrand. And Kelemvor saw that he was not alone. Two square tables had been pushed together to accommodate Thurbrand's party, which consisted of seven men and three women, none of whom would ever be confused with a regular patron of the Pride of Arabel without a heady amount of imagination. The men had the look of combat veterans, despite their apparent youth. One man, an albino, reached for his dagger. Thurbrand gestured for the albino to remain at ease. A beautiful woman with short, blond hair sat beside Thurbrand, riveted to the mercenary's every word and gesture. A girl with short, brown hair sat at the other end of the table, keeping to herself, eyeing Kelemvor suspiciously.
Kelemvor stared into the all too familiar emerald eyes of Thurbrand and found them as deceptive and hypnotizing as they always had been to him. Kelemvor grimaced.
"And here I thought the dogs were kept to the kennel," Kelemvor spat out. "The keeper must surely be chastised!"
Thurbrand shook his head and smiled as he regarded his companions. The look he gave them made it clear they were not to interfere, no matter what might occur. "Kelemvor!" he said, as if uttering the name was a trial in itself. "Surely the gods could not be so cruel!"
Kelemvor glared at the onlookers from the other tables and one by one they averted their unwelcome stares. "You're getting old," Kelemvor said, his volume greatly reduced.
Thurbrand was just past thirty summers, scarcely older than Kelemvor himself, and yet the ravishes of age had truly begun to prey upon the fighter. Thurbrand's hair, golden and fine, had gone to thinning, and was worn unusually long in an effort to cover huge patches of bald scalp. Thurbrand was obviously self-conscious about this, and he constantly patted his hair and cajoled it with fingers to keep it in place over the bald spots.
Lines had formed on Thurbrand's forehead and around his eyes since Kelemvor had seen him last, and the manner in which he held himself, even when seated, suggested the slouch of a fatted businessman, not the conditioned posture of the finely honed warrior Kelemvor had shared a few wild adventures with in years past, before a disagreement — the subject of which was long forgotten by either man — had caused them to part ways. Still, Thurbrand's face was red from too much sun, and his arms were as well-defined and powerful as Kelemvor's.
"Old? Thurbrand of the Stonelands, old? Gaze into your own mirror once in a while, you lumbering wreck. And has no one told you that civilized men do not draw weapons unless they have a use for them?"