Cyric! Her heart pounding with joy and fear simultaneously, Midnight stepped into the hall. The thief turned to meet her, his eyes wide with alarm.
“Cyric!” she whispered, advancing toward him. “It’s so good to see you!”
“You—er, I’m happy to see you as well,” he said, removing his hand from beneath his cloak.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, taking his arm and guiding him farther down the hall. It was less likely they’d be heard there, and Midnight didn’t want to awaken Kelemvor or Adon. “Were your arrows the ones that saved us from the zombie riders?”
Cyric nodded, his eyes narrow slits. “I trust the tablet is safe?”
“Of course,” Midnight replied, nodding. “And the Zhentilar who’ve been forcing us north? They’re yours as well?”
“Right again,” he replied. “I wanted you in Eveningstar.” His hand slipped beneath his cloak.
Midnight grew serious. “Why? What hazards lie to the south?”
Cyric frowned for a moment, then smiled. “The forces of Bane’s allies, of course,” he said flatly. “The Black Lord may have perished, but he had many allies—and the zombie riders are the least of them.” The thief withdrew his hand from the cloak again and laid it across Midnight’s shoulder. “That’s why I’m here.”
A sense of dread overcame Midnight. “If you’ve come to rejoin us, we must be careful. Kel and Adon have not forgotten Tantras.”
Cyric pulled his arm back hastily. “That’s not what I mean. I’ve come for you,” he said, “and the tablet.”
“You want me to abandon—”
“They cannot protect you,” Cyric snapped. “I can.”
Midnight shook her head, thinking of Kelemvor. “I can’t,” she said. “I won’t.”
Cyric studied her angrily for several seconds. “Think! Don’t you realize the power that you possess?”
Midnight shook her head. “I lost my—”
“With the tablets, we can be gods!” the thief snapped.
Midnight had the uncomfortable feeling that Cyric was talking to himself. “Are you mad?” she asked. “That’s blasphemy!”
“Blasphemy?” Cyric laughed. “Against who? The gods are here, tearing the Realms apart in search of the Tablets of Fate. Our only gods should be ourselves. We can forge our own destinies!”
“No.” Midnight backed a step away.
Cyric grabbed her elbow. “The gods are on your trail. Two nights past, Lord Bhaal butchered three of my best men. I’ll not burden you with the details of their deaths.” The thief’s eyes seemed to glow red for an instant. “Had Bhaal wished to stay for a day or two, he could have killed me and all my men” the thief continued. “But he didn’t. Do you know why?”
Midnight did not respond.
“Do you know why?” Cyric repeated, gripping her elbow harder. “Because Bhaal wants you and the tablet! You’ll never make it to Waterdeep. He’ll catch and kill Adon and Kelemvor, kill them in ways more painful than you can imagine.”
“No.” Midnight pulled her arm away. “I won’t permit it.”
“Then come with me,” Cyric insisted. “It’s your only chance … It’s their only chance.”
Down the hall a little ways, the door to the mage’s room opened. “Midnight?” It was Kelemvor’s sleepy voice.
The thief’s hand slipped beneath his cloak and closed around the hilt of his sword.
“Go!” Midnight said, shoving Cyric toward the stairs. “Kel will kill you.”
“Or I’ll kill him,” Cyric said, drawing his weapon. The short sword’s blade had a reddish sheen.
The drowsy fighter stepped into the hall, pants hastily fastened and sword in hand. Upon seeing Cyric, he rubbed his eyes as if unable to believe what he was seeing. “You? Here?” The warrior brought his guard up and advanced.
Midnight stepped away from Cyric. “Don’t force me to choose between friends,” she warned.
The thief looked at her coldly. “You’re going to have to make that choice soon.” With that, Cyric slipped down the stairs and disappeared into the dark.
Kelemvor did not follow, knowing that in the dark, the advantage would belong to Cyric. Instead, he turned to Midnight. “So, you were right. He followed us. Why didn’t you call me?”
“He came to talk,” Midnight replied, unsure whether Kelemvor’s tone showed hurt or anger. “You’d have killed him.”
Just then, Sneakabout came bounding up the stairs with a rope slung over his shoulder and a book of parchment in his hands. When he saw Midnight and Kelemvor, he nearly fell over himself. “You’re awake!”
“Yes,” Kelemvor grumbled. “We had a visitor.”
“You’re about to have more. A Zhentilar band is riding this way.” The halfling gave the book to Midnight without explaining where he’d gotten it.
Kelemvor opened the door to Adon’s room. “Get up! Gather your things!” Then he turned to Midnight. “Do you still believe Cyric wanted to talk?”
“You drew your weapon first,” she replied, pointing at Kelemvor’s sword.
“Uh—can you finish this later?” Sneakabout interrupted. He took the rope off his shoulder.
“We may not have a chance,” Kelemvor answered. “We’ll never reach the stables—”
“No need to,” the halfling chimed, grinning widely. “When the Zhentilar started nosing around, I saddled our horses. They’re beneath my window.”
Kelemvor slapped Sneakabout on the back, nearly knocking him down. “Good man!” Then the fighter turned to Midnight and said, “Collect our gear. We’ll discuss this later.”
Though resentful of his tone, Midnight immediately did as Kelemvor asked. While the magic-user hastily packed, the fighter took the rope and looped it over a beam. Adon and Sneakabout climbed out the window and slipped into the saddle of the first horse. The warrior dropped the tablet and their gear to them. A moment later, Midnight returned with the remaining bags, then climbed out the window and slid down the rope to her waiting horse. Kelemvor dropped their packs to her and followed an instant later. The halfling guided them out of town by way of a back street, and they didn’t see even one of Cyric’s men.
4
High Horn
“Let down your guard, friend Adon,” said Lord Commander Kae Deverell. A robust man with red hair and a deep, jolly voice, Lord Deverell sat at the head of a long oaken table. Behind him, a fire roared in a magnificent hearth, illuminating the room with flickering yellow light.
To Deverell’s right sat Kelemvor, and to Kelemvor’s right, stretched down the table like horses at a trough, sat fifteen Cormyrian officers. A mug of ale and a plate of roasted goat rested before each man. Iron candelabras stood on the table every few feet, supplementing the light from the fireplace.
Sneakabout occupied the first seat to Lord Deverell’s left, followed by Adon. The saddlebags containing the tablet rested on the floor next to the cleric’s chair. To Adon’s left sat Midnight, who was drinking wine instead of ale, and on her left sat six Cormyrian war wizards.
Three serving wenches bustled in and out of the shadows at the room’s edge, keeping everyone’s mug filled and making sure no plate was ever empty.
“You and your friends are safe enough here,” Deverell continued, still addressing Adon.
The cleric smiled and nodded, but did not relax.
Midnight grimaced inwardly, embarrassed by Adon’s rudeness. After losing her spellbook, she could sympathize with his caution. But he was acting as though the company were camped along the road. There was no reason for his insulting behavior in a Cormyrian stronghold.
Inside High Horn, the tablet was safe—if any safe place existed in the Realms. Protecting the only road across the Dragonjaw Mountains, the fortress had been built for defense. It stood upon the summit of a cragged peak, and its curving walls overlooked thousand-foot cliffs. Only three paths, each heavily fortified and guarded, led to the mighty castle. Even then, each road ended in a drawbridge and a triple-doored gatehouse as secure as any in Cormyr.