“Whom may I say is calling?” The imperious voice came from the tower’s base, though no speaker was visible.
The old man regarded the tower with distaste, then said, “If Khelben no longer knows his teacher, then perhaps I’ve come to the wrong place.”
“Elminster! Welcome!” A black-haired man stuck his head and shoulders right through the tower’s second story wall. He had a neatly trimmed black beard, steady brown eyes, and handsome features. “Come in! You remember where the entrance is?”
“Of course,” Elminster responded, walking to the base of the tower and stepping through the wall as if it was a door. He stopped in a neatly arranged sitting room cluttered with dragon horns, iron crowns, and other trophies from the wizard’s adventures. Elminster withdrew his meerschaum pipe from his cloak, lit it from a burning candle, then sat down in the room’s most comfortable chair.
A moment later, Khelben “Blackstaff” Arunsun rushed down the stairs, hurriedly pulling a purple cloak over the plain robe of white silk he usually wore while alone in his tower. The dark-haired mage wrinkled his nose at the overly sweet odor from the pipe, then took a seat in the chair usually reserved for guests. “Welcome back to Waterdeep, my friend. What brings you—”
“I need thy help, Blackstaff,” Elminster said, pointing his pipe stem at the younger wizard.
Blackstaff grimaced. “My magic’s not been—”
“Don’t ye think I know that?” the old sage interrupted. “It’s the same all over. Not a month ago, my favorite pipe blew up in my face when I used a pyrotechnics spell on it, and the last time I tried a rope trick I had to cut myself loose.”
Blackstaff nodded sympathetically. “I contacted Piergeiron the Paladinson telepathically and ended up broadcasting our thoughts to the entire city of Waterdeep.”
Elminster stuck his pipe back in his mouth and puffed on it several times. “And that’s not the worst of it. Chaos is running rampant through the land. The birds of Shadowdale have started digging burrows, and the River Arkhen is full of boiling blood.”
“It’s the same here in Waterdeep,” the younger wizard said. “The fishermen won’t leave the harbor. Schools of mackerel have been sinking their boats.”
The old sage absent-mindedly blew a green smoke ring, then said, “Ye know the reason for all of this trouble?”
Blackstaff looked uncomfortable. “I know it started when Ao cast the gods out of the Planes for stealing the Tablets of Fate. I’ve had trouble learning more than that.”
Elminster sucked on his pipe thoughtfully, then said, “Fortunately, I haven’t. Shortly after the Arrival, I was sought out by a company of four adventurers—a female mage named Midnight, a cleric called Adon of Sune, a fighter named Kelemvor Lyonsbane, and a thief who went by the name of Cyric. They claimed they had rescued the goddess Mystra from Bane’s grasp. Afterward, Mystra had tried to return to the Planes, but had perished when Helm refused to let her pass. With her dying breath, they claimed, Mystra had sent them to warn me that Bane would attack Shadowdale, and to seek my help in finding the Tablets of Fate.
“At first I didn’t believe them,” Elminster continued, pausing to puff on his pipe twice more. “But the woman presented a pendant that the goddess had given her. And, as they had promised, Bane attacked Shadowdale. The four comported themselves very well in the dale’s defense.”
The sage purposely left out any mention of the hardship the heroes had suffered as a result of his own disappearance during the Battle of Shadowdale. The townsfolk had accused Midnight and Adon of murdering him. Fortunately, that matter had been cleared up.
“In any case,” Elminster noted, “I soon learned that one of the tablets was in Tantras. After briefly being separated as a result of the Battle of Shadowdale, I once again met Midnight, Kelemvor, and Adon in Tantras.”
“What of the thief—Cyric, did you say?” Blackstaff asked. He was a keen listener and had not missed the fact that Elminster had left Cyric’s name out of his last statement.
“The thief left the party on their journey to Tantras. I’m not sure what happened, but it seems he may have betrayed his fellows. In any case, he’s not important to what came next. Bane followed Midnight and her friends to Tantras, then tried to recover the tablet himself. The god Torm, who had taken up residence in the city, met Bane in combat. The resulting battle threatened to destroy Tantras, but Midnight rang the Bell of Aylan Attricus—”
“She what?” Blackstaff interrupted, rising to his feet. “Nobody can ring the bell—not even me!”
“Midnight did,” Elminster confirmed. “And she activated the anti-magic shield surrounding the city. The avatars of both gods were destroyed.” The old sage sat quietly puffing on his pipe.
After a moment, Blackstaff asked, “And then what?”
Elminster blew a series of smoke rings. “And that is where we begin,” he said at last. “Midnight and her friends are bringing the tablet to Waterdeep.”
The younger wizard considered this for a long time, looking for some reason for making such a long and hazardous journey. Finally, he could find none and asked, “Why?”
Elminster smiled. “For two reasons,” he explained. “First, there is a Celestial Stairway nearby. Second, because the other tablet is here and we need both of them to return the gods to the Planes.”
“A tablet is in Waterdeep?” Blackstaff asked. “Where?”
“That’s why I need you,” the sage said. “All I could learn was that I might find a tablet by going to Waterdeep.”
The younger mage rolled his eyes. “Waterdeep’s a big city.”
Elminster put his pipe away. “Then let’s get started. I’d like to find the tablet by the time Midnight arrives.”
1
Visitors
Midnight’s eyes, as dark and deep as the night, followed the shadow as it moved behind the upturned roots of a toppled willow tree. A strong wind whispered through the dark forest, rustling bushes and shaking tree limbs, filling the wood with dancing silhouettes of ambiguous form and size. Overhead, the clouds of a passing storm raced by the moon, dragging heavy shadows through the tangled grove like silent warriors.
Midnight and two companions were camped at the south end of a tear-shaped wood. Her friends were sleeping in a small lean-to shelter erected between two trees. One of the men, Kelemvor, was snoring with deep soft rumbles that sounded like a growling wolf.
While her companions rested, Midnight sat twenty yards away, keeping watch. Not yet thirty and gifted with a lean body, she was a woman of sultry charms. Eyebrows as thin and black as painted lines hung over her eyes, and a long braid of jet-black hair trailed down her back. Her only flaw, if it could be called that, lay in the premature worry lines furrowed over her brow and etched around her mouth.
Those worry lines had grown deeper over the last few days. Adon, Midnight, and Kelemvor had been aboard a small galley bound for the port city of Ilipur, where they intended to find a caravan bound for Waterdeep. As the vessel entered the final leg of its journey, through a sheltered sea called the Dragonmere, an unnatural storm rose out of the calm waters and almost tore the ship to pieces. The storm had lasted for three nerve-wracking days, and the galley had only been saved by the valiant efforts of its crew.
The superstitious captain, already nervous about a Zhentish trireme that had been following them, had blamed his bad luck on his passengers. When the storm finally let up, the captain had immediately turned toward the nearest land and put the three companions ashore.