“See for yourself,” Kelemvor replied.
After catching his breath, Adon stood and peered down on the lake. The view lifted his spirits, as it had Kelemvor’s. “We’re there! The journey’s downhill from here!”
Looking back to Midnight, Kelemvor asked, “How’s she doing?”
Adon turned, suddenly feeling morose. “Sneakabout’s death still grieves her.”
Kelemvor gave his pony’s reins to Adon, then started back down the trail. The cleric quickly placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. “No.”
“But she’s tired!” Kelemvor objected, turning to face the cleric. “And I’m strong enough to carry her.”
“She doesn’t want help,” Adon replied. Two hours ago, he had offered to take her pony’s reins. The magic-user had threatened to change him into a crow.
Kelemvor glanced back at Midnight’s slow-moving form. “It’s time we spoke.”
“I agree!” Adon exclaimed, relieved that the warrior had finally overcome his stubbornness. “But let her finish the climb alone. Now isn’t the time to imply she can’t carry her weight.”
Kelemvor was not inclined to agree. “Five minutes ago, I’d have given my sword to somebody who’d carry me up the pass. I don’t think she’d take it wrong.”
The cleric shook his head. “Trust me. Climbing gives you time to think. Despite the cramps in your legs, the pounding in your ears, and the fog in your head, climbing promotes thought.”
The fighter frowned. In him, it promoted nothing but a pounding headache. “It does?”
“Yes,” Adon insisted. He released the warrior’s shoulder. “While I was struggling up the trail, a few things occurred to me. Midnight saved Cyric, then Cyric killed Sneakabout. If you were her, wouldn’t you feel responsible?”
“Of course I would,” Kelemvor responded quickly. “And I told her—” He stopped in midsentence, recalling the bitter argument that had followed Sneakabout’s death.
“Exactly!” Adon said, nodding. “What did she say?”
“It didn’t make any sense,” Kelemvor replied defensively. “She said it was our fault that Sneakabout had died. She said Cyric came to talk and we attacked him.” The warrior frowned. “You’re not saying she was right?”
Adon grew serious. “We did strike first.”
“No,” Kelemvor objected, holding up a hand as if to ward off an attack. “I don’t kill lightly, not even before …” He let the sentence trail off.
“Before Bane lifted your curse?” Adon finished for him. “You’re worried that being free of the curse might not mean you’re less of an animal.”
Kelemvor looked away.
“We all have self-doubts,” Adon replied, sensing that now was a good time to open up to the fighter. “With me, it’s wondering if I was right to turn away from Sune.”
“A man has to follow his heart,” the warrior said, grasping the cleric’s shoulder warmly. “You could have done nothing else.” Kelemvor’s mind returned to what Midnight had said about attacking their former ally. “Could we be wrong about Cyric?”
Adon shrugged. “Midnight certainly thought so.”
Kelemvor groaned.
The cleric quickly added, “But I’m convinced we’re right. Cyric’s men were surrounding our camp, so I doubt he came to talk. It isn’t wrong to strike first if your target means you harm.”
Adon paused, letting his reassurances take their effect. Finally, he proceeded to the main point. “But that doesn’t matter. What matters is how you and I reacted to Midnight.”
“What do you mean?” Kelemvor asked, glancing at the mage again. She was still plodding up the trail, making slow but steady progress.
“When I suggested we were wrong to attack, you felt defensive, didn’t you?”
Kelemvor nodded.
“How do you think Midnight feels? Since Sneakabout died, you’ve hardly spoken to her. I’ve done nothing but lecture her about Cyric. Don’t you think she feels worse than we do?”
“Probably,” Kelemvor muttered, looking at the ground. Midnight always seemed so composed that it had never occurred to him she might be suffering the same sort of inner turmoil he was.
Studying the warrior’s bowed head, Adon continued. “With us blaming Sneakabout’s death on her, it seems likely that—no matter how she protests otherwise—Midnight blames herself, too.”
“All right,” Kelemvor said, turning toward the west side of the ridge, away from both Adon and Midnight. “I see your point. She feels bad enough without us rubbing it in.”
Kelemvor was ashamed of his behavior since Eveningstar. Without facing Adon, he said, “Life was much simpler when the curse prevented me from thinking about anybody else. At least I had an excuse for being selfish.” The warrior shook his head angrily. “I haven’t changed at all! I’m still cursed.”
“Sure,” Adon replied. “But no more or less than any other man.”
Kelemvor turned back toward Midnight. “All the more reason to carry her. I can apologize for my harsh words.”
Adon shook his head, wondering if the fighter had understood anything that had been said. “Not yet. Midnight already feels like a burden, and offering to carry her will only convince her she is. Sit down and wait until she gets here herself.”
Though clouds were gathering in all directions, Kelemvor did as the cleric asked. The saddle was no place to be during a storm, but Adon’s words seemed wise. Besides, even if a storm broke, descending the west side of the ridge would take only a fraction of the time it had taken the heroes to ascend the east side.
Adon went to his pony and rummaged through the supplies from High Horn. A minute later, the cleric pulled out a parchment map and, retaining a secure grip on it because of the wind, carefully studied it.
Kelemvor, on the other hand, contemplated the changes in Adon. The cleric’s self-confidence had returned, but was tempered with a compassion that had been lacking before Tantras. Where the transformation had come from, the fighter could not imagine. But he was glad for the newfound wisdom—even if Adon still required a thousand words to convey what could be said in ten.
“You surprise me, Adon,” Kelemvor said at last, watching his friend study the map with diligence. “I didn’t think you so cunning in the ways of the heart.”
Adon looked up. “I’m as surprised as you.”
“Perhaps Sune is closer than you think,” the green-eyed fighter suggested, remembering what the cleric had said regarding misgivings about turning away from her.
Adon smiled sadly, thinking of how distant he felt from his old deity. “I doubt it.” He grew reflective for a moment, then pulled himself out of his reverie. “But thanks anyway.”
Embarrassed by the unaccustomed sentimentality of the moment, Kelemvor looked away and watched Midnight struggling up the trail. She moved slowly, resting with each step, keeping her eyes focused on the ground ahead of her. The warrior found himself admiring her grace and how it mirrored her inner strength.
A wave of concern for her washed over him. “Will Midnight survive all this?” Kelemvor asked.
“She will,” Adon replied. He didn’t even look away from the map. “She’s as fit as you or I.”
Kelemvor continued studying the magic-user. “That’s not what I mean. We’re just two soldiers who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. But there’s more to it for her.” The warrior was remembering the amulet she had carried for Mystra. “This involves her. Could her magic—I don’t know how to put it—but could it remake her somehow?”
Adon grew reflective and lowered the map. “I don’t know magic,” he said at last. “And it wouldn’t help if I did. There isn’t any question that Midnight’s power is increasing. What that means is anybody’s guess, but I suspect it will change her.”