Midnight blinked and looked away. Atop the keep’s inner wall, the sentries marched their routes without paying the eye any attention. The magic-user wondered if she were imagining the thing, but when she looked back, the eye still hung in the sky.
Fascinated by the magnitude of its hideousness, Midnight studied the green orb for several minutes. Finally, she decided her captivation was pointless and dressed.
The mage proceeded with the task of dressing slowly, stopping to yawn often. After imprisoning Bhaal, Midnight had fallen into a restless sleep that did little to replenish her energy. Though the god’s attack had terrified her, the ride from Eveningstar had fatigued the mage to the point where staying awake had been out of the question.
Her slumber had been short-lived, however. Two guards had come to lay planks over the collapsed landing, interrupting her rest. Midnight had spent the next two hours flinching at High Horn’s unfamiliar sounds, then finally drifted into an unsettled sleep that had lasted until she woke to the green dawn.
Though still drowsy and exhausted, Midnight knew it would be pointless to return to bed. Sleeping during the day was difficult for her, especially with the clamor of castle life outside the window. Besides, the magic-user was anxious to turn her thoughts to the spell she had used last night.
The spell had simply appeared in Midnight’s mind, which both puzzled and delighted her. Magic was a rigorous discipline, demanding careful and tedious study. The mystical symbols that a mage impressed upon her brain when studying a spell carried power. Casting the spell discharged the power, draining all memory of the symbols until the spell was studied again. That was why Midnight’s spellbook had been her most valued possession.
But the stone-to-mud spell had appeared in her mind without study. In fact, she had never studied it, and had considered it beyond her ability to cast.
Flushed with excitement, Midnight decided to summon another spell. If she could call mystical symbols at will, the loss of her spellbook would be a trivial—perhaps even lucky—thing.
She closed her eyes and cleared her mind. Then, remembering how Kelemvor had spurned her last night, she tried to trace the symbols for a charm spell into her brain.
Midnight did not need to try for long, however. Nothing happened, and the magic-user immediately knew that nothing would. She sat down and analyzed every detail of the previous night’s events. After the collapsed landings had failed to kill Bhaal, she had realized their only hope was to imprison the god—and a method for doing so had come to her.
But Midnight couldn’t remember any of the spell’s mystical symbols, and realized that the incantation had come to her in pure, unadulterated form. She puzzled over this for several minutes. In effect, mystical symbols were spells, for symbols put the spellcaster in touch with the magic that powered her art. It was impossible to cast a spell without using a mystical symbol.
With sudden clarity, Midnight understood what had happened. She had not cast a spell at all, at least not as most magic-users thought of one. Instead, she had tapped the magic weave directly, shaping its power without symbols or runes.
Her stomach fluttering, Midnight decided to try summoning the charm spell again. This time, she concentrated upon the desired effect instead of the symbols associated with it. The power swelled within her and she intuitively knew how to say the words and make the gestures that would shape the magic into her charm spell.
Midnight’s hand went to her chest and she ran her fingers over a flat, smooth line crossing her collarbone. That was where, just weeks before, the chain of Mystra’s pendant had grafted itself to her chest.
“What have you done to me?” she asked, looking toward the heavens. Of course, no one answered.
As Midnight contemplated the magic weave in her room on the second floor, a dozen hungry Cormyrian officers stood in the banquet room on the first floor. They had been awaiting the arrival of Lord Deverell, and dawn repast, for over an hour.
Finally, the lord commander stumbled into the room. His eyes were sunken and bloodshot and his skin pallid yellow. His condition had nothing to do with Bhaal’s attack of the night before. Lord Deverell had slept through the entire battle and knew about it only because his valet had recounted it for him.
Although he had drunk less ale than Lord Deverell, Kelemvor was less accustomed to the potent drink and was in a condition similar to the lord commander’s. However, he was still in bed, having earlier informed a maid that he would not be rising before midday. Adon, too, remained in bed, finally resting quietly after a series of dreams involving Bhaal and various forms of slow death.
Sneakabout was the only one of the four companions present when Lord Commander Deverell took his seat. Though any other host might have found the absence of Sneakabout’s friends strange, perhaps even rude, it did not trouble Deverell. In fact, it made him feel less guilty about rising so late, and these days he could do with less guilt. The night officers were sure to grumble about his valet’s inability to rouse him last night, and Deverell couldn’t blame them. Lately, there had been too many occasions for similar remarks. But he felt he could not be blamed for keeping himself entertained in the forlorn halls of High Horn.
Deverell waved the officers and Sneakabout to the table. “Sit,” he said wearily. “Eat.”
The officers sat without comment. From conversations he’d had earlier, the halfling knew that the Cormyrians were in a foul mood. Most had spent the night on cold ramparts and were anxious to go to bed, though ceremony dictated they break bread with their lord first.
Serving wenches brought out steaming bowls of hot cereal. Deverell looked at the gruel and pushed it away in disgust, but Sneakabout dug in with a hearty appetite. He liked boiled grains more than roasted meat or sweet cake.
A moment later, Deverell turned to the halfling. “My steward tells me you broke into his office last night.”
Sneakabout gulped down a mouthful of oats. “The need was great, milord.”
“So I hear,” Deverell replied, shaking his head sadly. “My thanks for your quick thought.”
“Think nothing of it, milord. It was but gratitude for your hospitality.” Though raised in Black Oaks, Sneakabout had seen the inside of enough palaces to know the mandates of courtesy.
A murmur of approval rippled through the room. The lord commander tried to smile and inclined his head. “Your words are kind, but I must apologize. I promised safe refuge, and my failure to provide it is a grievous violation of host duty.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Lord Deverell,” Midnight said, stepping into the room.
Lord Deverell and the others stood to acknowledge her presence. “Lady Midnight,” Deverell observed. “You look well this morning.”
Midnight smiled, appreciating the flattery—though she knew her fatigue showed. The magic-user approached the table, continuing to speak. “You mustn’t feel bad on our account. Our attacker was Bhaal, Lord of Murder.”
Whispers rustled round the table. She had just confirmed the rumor that had circulated through the ranks all night. A few men cast nervous glances toward the courtyard, where Bhaal still lay in his amber prison, but no one made any comments.
Sneakabout added, “There was nothing you could do. Nobody could have stopped him.”
“But you slowed him down, friend halfling,” Deverell responded, motioning Midnight to a seat. “Perhaps you should be my watch captain.”
One of the officers, a lanky man named Pell Beresford, frowned. So did Midnight. In the few days she had known him, she had developed a fondness for the halfling—and the cleverness he had shown in twice saving their company. The prospect of parting with him did not make her happy.