"You can be a part of this," Sunlar said.
Midnight reached out to the weave, but stopped as she caught sight of her own hand. Her flesh had become translucent, and within the boundaries of her form, she saw a pulse of fantastic colors that mirrored the raw magical energy before her.
"This is power," Sunlar said. "Power to build worlds, to heal the sick, to destroy evil. Power to serve Mystra as she wishes you to."
Midnight was overwhelmed.
"It is within your grasp," Sunlar said. "And it is your responsibility to take it, Midnight. No one else can be Lady Mystra's champion on Faerun. No one but you."
The raven-haired mage was silent for a moment, then she said quietly, "But what does Mystra want in return for this honor?"
"Your absolute loyalty, of course. And you'll have to devote the rest of your life to fighting for Mystra's causes all across the Realms."
"Then she wants everything. I'll have no life of my own."
Sunlar smiled. "That's a small price to pay to become a goddess's most powerful representative in the world."
Sunlar faced the tiny world far below and spread his arms wide. "All this will be yours, Lady Midnight. You will be gaining the entire world as your charge. And without you, it will certainly perish."
The fabric of the universe began to tear. Vast sections of the weave unraveled before Midnight's eyes, and images of the temple and Mystra's followers could be seen beyond the rips. They were screaming, calling out for Mystra to save them. Calling for the Magister to heal the Realms.
"You must choose quickly," Sunlar said.
The holes in the universe widened. In places Midnight could no longer see the weave at all.
"You are the only one who can save the Realms, Lady Midnight, but you must decide to do it right now."
Midnight's breath became ragged. The weave seemed to call to her. She started to open her mouth to speak, to accept her responsibility, when she heard a voice, soft but distinct, crying out with the worshipers in the temple.
"Midnight," a familiar voice cried. "I need your help to save Cyric and Adon!"
"Kel!" Midnight cried. "Sunlar, I must help him."
"Ignore his petty concerns," Sunlar said. "Better still solve his problems by helping all the Realms."
"Wait, Sunlar. I cannot forsake everything that makes up my life, everyone that I care about, on a moment's notice. I need more time!"
"That is the one thing you don't have," Sunlar said softly.
Eternity vanished. The weave was gone. Only the temple remained. Midnight looked down at her hands and saw that they were flesh and blood once again. She felt the sting of tears on her cheek and almost laughed.
One of Mystra's worshipers moved forward. It was a man, and she recognized his face.
Kelemvor.
The fighter held out his hand. "Come back," he said. "The others need you. I need you."
Sunlar grasped her shoulder and turned her to face him. "Don't listen to him. You have a duty to your goddess! You have a duty to the Realms!"
"No!" Midnight shouted as she pulled herself free from Sunlar's grasp. Mystra's followers froze in mid-motion, and Kelemvor, now dressed in his fighting gear, stood before her.
"You have dishonored yourself and your goddess," Sunlar said, his face fading into the shadows that fell upon the throne room like curtains, darkening the illusions. Then he was gone. In moments only scattered patches of illusion remained, and Midnight saw Kelemvor crawling on the floor of a room that once might have been an audience hall. A large, overturned chair that bore a striking resemblance to the throne she had sat upon lay in the corner. The musty chamber was domed, just as it had been in her illusion.
Midnight looked down and saw that the pendant was still there, still grafted to her skin.
"What's going on here? One minute I'm opening a door, the next I'm floating above the world, now I'm in a ruined throne room."
Then Midnight noticed that Kelemvor appeared wounded. She ran to his side as he collapsed, but saw that his face and body were unscarred. Still, the fighter was sweating and seemed very frightened.
"Offer me something!" he snarled, his voice low and very menacing.
"What? What are you talking about?"
Kelemvor flinched and his ribs seemed to move of their own accord. Midnight looked at him warily.
"A reward!" he said, and his flesh began to darken. "For helping to free you from the illusion and for going on with the quest. We abandoned it, Cyric and I — "
The fighter shuddered and turned away from Midnight. "Hurry!"
"A kiss," she said softly. "Your reward will be a kiss from my lips."
Kelemvor collapsed on the floor, out of breath. When he rose, his skin had returned to its natural complexion.
"What was that all about?" Midnight said.
Kelemvor shook his head. "We have to find the others."
"But I — "
"We can't possibly make it out of here alive without them," Kelemvor yelled. "So, for our own good, we have to do it now!"
Midnight did not move.
"We were separated," Kelemvor said. "Sent to different parts of the castle. I awoke in a library on the first floor. I followed the noise until I found you."
"Noise? Then you saw and heard — "
"Very little. I heard your voice and followed it until I found you. But we'll have more time to figure this out later. Now, help me find the others!"
Midnight followed the fighter down the darkened corridors.
After Kelemvor escaped through the tear in the carpet, it started to close in around Cyric, and it dwindled until it was the size of a large chest. The thief tried to slice the rug with his sword, but it was no use; the blade simply bounced off each time he struck at the trap. The carpet continued to shrink until Cyric felt it conform to the shape of his body and squeeze with such pressure that he blacked out. When he awoke, he was in one of the back alleys of Zhentil Keep, being kicked awake by a watchman, just as he had been regularly in his childhood.
"Move along," one of the Black Guard said. "Or else nothing but steel will fill your gut this day."
Cyric fended off the blows and rose to his feet.
"Stinking vagrants," the guard said, and spat at the ground near Cyric's feet. The thief moved forward to attack the man, but something reached out from the shadows behind him. Hands were pressed against Cyric's mouth, others held his arms. He fought against the pull of the hands but there was nothing he could do. He was dragged into the side alley as the watchman stood and laughed.
"Calm down, boy," an all too familiar voice said.
Cyric watched as the guard walked to the end of the alley and turned off onto the street, vanishing from sight.
The thief allowed his body to relax, and the iron grip that held him loosened. Cyric turned and faced the shadows. Even before his eyes adjusted to the darkness he knew the identity of the men before him.
One was known as Quicksal, an evil little thief who took great pleasure in killing his victims. Just as Cyric remembered it, Quicksal's fine, golden hair was unwashed, and traces of dyes of every type could be found within it, as he generally tried to disguise himself. False beards, age make up, strange accents, odd personality traits — all these were part of an ever growing repertoire that Quicksal called upon to create vivid characters for potential witnesses to remember. His face was thin and hawklike, and his fingers were extremely long. Strangely, Quicksal still appeared to be in his teens, though Cyric knew he had to be at least twenty-five years old.