“I fear the ointment wouldn’t do any good,” Adon noted softly. “But I’d welcome your company.”
The chatter at the head of the table died, and Kelemvor glanced at the cleric with a raised eyebrow.
Realizing he had made a social gaff, Adon quickly added, “Perhaps we could discuss your—er, your—”
“Milord?” the girl asked, impatient with his floundering.
“Are you happy as a serving wench? Surely, you have other ambitions. We could talk—”
“I like what I do,” she answered in a huff. “And it wasn’t talking I had in mind.”
Lord Deverell roared in laughter. “Your charms are wasted on him, Treen,” he said to the wench, breaking into a new fit of laughter.
The officers slapped the table and guffawed. Kelemvor frowned, uncertain as to whether he had missed the joke or the situation simply wasn’t funny. Finally, Deverell brought his mirth under control and continued, “Perhaps, Treen, you’d have better luck with Kelemvor—a tower of virility if ever I saw one!”
Treen obliged her liege by rounding the table to Kelemvor. She ran her hand over his arms. “What do you say, Sir Tower?”
Midnight and Adon were the only ones who did not burst into laughter.
Kelemvor took a long swig of ale, then sat his mug on the table. “Why not?” he asked, glancing at Midnight. “Someone must make amends for Adon’s rudeness!” The warrior was intentionally trying to provoke Midnight. He was confused and hurt by the bitterness of their disagreement concerning Cyric, and could not help but believe there was more to it than he understood. If his flirtation angered Midnight, then at least he would know she cared enough to become jealous.
When Treen slipped her fingers beneath Kelemvor’s shirt, Midnight could hold her temper no longer. She sat her wine goblet down hard. “This is one thing Adon should do for himself,” she said coldly.
A surprised mutter ran around the table. Kelemvor smiled at Midnight, who simply glowered back. Treen withdrew her fingers from beneath the warrior’s shirt. “If this man belongs to you, milady—,” Treen began.
“He belongs to no one!” Midnight snapped, standing. She did not doubt Kelemvor had meant to hurt her, and he had succeeded. The raven-haired magic-user frowned and turned to Deverell. “I am weary, Lord, and wish to retire.” With that, she spun on her heel and disappeared into the gloom.
The table remained silent for several moments, then Treen turned to Lord Deverell. “I’m sorry, Lord. I meant—”
Deverell held up a hand. “A jest gone awry, girl. Think no more of it.”
Treen bowed, then retreated into the kitchen. Kelemvor drained his mug, then lifted it to be filled again.
Adon was glad to see the girl go. In the days ahead, it would be difficult enough for Midnight and Kelemvor to get along. The cleric knew the pair loved each other, though at the moment petty anger prevented them from realizing that fact themselves. But if they didn’t come to grips with their feelings soon, the journey ahead would be a long one. It would have been much simpler, it seemed to Adon, if Midnight had been a man, or, better yet, Kelemvor a woman.
The page entered again and approached Lord Deverell. In the room’s silence, it was impossible not to hear his whisper. “Milord, Captain Beresford orders me report the absence of three sentries from the inner curtain.”
“The inner curtain?” Deverell exclaimed. “There, too?” He considered this for a moment, mumbling to himself. Like most of the men in the hall, he was rather drunk—too drunk to be making command decisions. “Beresford’s discipline must be sorely lacking,” he said at last. “Tell the captain I will personally correct this problem—in the morning!”
Sneakabout frowned at Adon. That five guards would abandon their posts in one night seemed strange. “Perhaps we should sleep lightly tonight,” the halfling whispered, glancing at Kelemvor. The warrior had just downed his third mug of ale since Midnight’s departure.
Adon nodded, a sudden sense of doom and foreboding overcoming him. “I’ll see if I can slow him down.” Like Sneakabout, the cleric did not feel comfortable sleeping in a castle where the guard abandoned its post. He would feel even more uncomfortable if Kelemvor went to bed inebriated.
Before Adon could speak to Kelemvor, though, Lord Deverell lifted his mug. “Let us drink a health to Sir Kelemvor and the Lady Midnight. May they both rest well—” He winked at Kelemvor. “—though it be in separate beds!”
A wave of laughter ran around the table and the officers chorused, “Here, here!”
“I don’t know about Lady Midnight,” Kelemvor said, raising his mug to his lips. “But Sir Tower will not sleep this night!”
“If you have another mug of ale,” Adon noted as he stood up, “the choice will be out of your hands. Come along—we’ve had a hard ride and need some rest.”
“Nonsense, nonsense!” Lord Deverell cried, glad to see his party resuming a festive air. “There will be time enough to rest tomorrow. Midnight said she wanted a day to replenish her spellbook, did she not?”
“True enough, milord,” Adon replied. “But we’ve been on the trail a long time and aren’t accustomed to such rich fare. Kelemvor may feel this night for days to come.”
The green-eyed fighter frowned at Adon, resentful of the unexpected supervision. “Come morning, I’ll be as strong as my horse,” he bragged, standing and swaying slightly. “Besides, who named you captain?”
“You did,” Adon answered quietly, speaking the truth as he knew it. Kelemvor had lost his sense of purpose. The detour to Black Oaks had been only one example of the warrior’s inability to focus on recovering the tablets. Someone needed to fill the void, and Midnight, intelligent as she was, seemed unwilling to take charge of the company. That had left only Adon to be the leader, and he was determined to fill the role as best he could.
“I did not,” Kelemvor responded slowly, dropping back into his chair. “I wouldn’t follow a faithless cleric.”
Adon winced, but made no retort. He knew the warrior had to be very upset—and very drunk—to lash out at a friend so fiercely.
Sighing, the cleric said, “Have it as you will.” He picked up the saddlebags with the tablet.
Kelemvor frowned, realizing that he had treated Adon cruelly. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t called for.”
“I understand,” Adon replied. “Even if you don’t go to sleep, try not to drink too much.” He turned to Lord Deverell. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m very tired.”
Kae Deverell nodded and smiled, glad to be rid of the killjoy.
After Adon had gone, Kelemvor’s mood grew even darker. He spoke little, and drank even less. It fell on Sneakabout’s shoulders to keep Lord Deverell’s party jolly and exuberant, which he did by reciting halfling stories and poems. Finally, two hours later, Lord Deverell drank one ale too many and slumped into his chair, unconscious.
The six Cormyrian officers who had outlasted their commander breathed sighs of relief and stood. Grumbling about the lateness of the hour, they picked up the lord commander and went to put him to bed. From their impatient attitude, the halfling guessed that similar duties fell on their shoulders with too great a frequency for their liking.
After seeing Kelemvor to his room on the tower’s third floor, Sneakabout went down to the second floor and peeked in on Midnight and Adon. Both were sleeping soundly, so he began an investigation of the keep tower.
While the halfling explored, Adon drifted through the night in the mists of a sleep as deep and peaceful as he could remember. Though the cleric had not realized it until leaving Lord Deverell’s table, the previous two days of riding had truly exhausted him. He had collapsed into bed without undressing.