“Anything yet, Adon?” the green-eyed fighter asked. Though he was not well versed in these matters, it seemed to him that something should have happened by now.
The interruption shattered the trance and Adon came spinning back to the world with dizzying speed. The cleric closed his eyes and shook his head from side to side, digging his fingers into the cold mud.
He had been sitting before the fire since dusk, without eating, drinking, or so much as shifting his weight. His back ached, his legs were numb, and his eyes burned. Irritated with Kelemvor’s intrusion, Adon asked, “How long has it been?”
“Half the night, maybe more,” the warrior muttered, doubting the wisdom of interrupting the cleric’s meditation. “I’ve been to gather wood a dozen times.”
He didn’t add that someone was watching them. If he told Adon now, the cleric would react with surprise and the mysterious figure would know that she’d been discovered.
Adon rolled his neck, letting his aggravation drain away with his stiffness. He could not blame Kelemvor for being impatient, and the interruption had not changed the trance’s result. “I found nothing,” the scarred cleric reported. “Sune cannot hear me … or will not answer.”
Adon wasn’t surprised by this fact or even disappointed. Attempting to contact Sune had been Kelemvor’s idea. Even though it was a desperate plan with little chance of success, the cleric had agreed because they stood to lose nothing by trying.
The fighter, however, was disappointed. He snapped a stick and threw it into the fire. “Midnight’s lost, then,” he said sadly.
Adon laid a gentle hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We’ll find her.”
Kelemvor shook his head. “She’s been gone four nights. We’ll never catch her.”
The cleric could say nothing. When she had abandoned them, Midnight had ridden north, well into the gorge of the River Reaching. Mounted on her sturdy mountain pony, Midnight could have taken no more than three or four hours for the first leg of her escape. But on foot, it had taken Adon and Kelemvor a full day to reach the clearing where she had left their mounts. By the time they had returned to the main route, Midnight had a head start of a day and a half.
Her desertion would have been disturbing in itself. But when they found Midnight’s trail again, Kelemvor had also discovered the hoofprints of a dozen horses following her. He and Adon had both agreed the horses could only belong to Cyric and his men.
“Well, what should we do now?” Kelemvor asked.
Adon didn’t have a single idea to offer, and he wished Kelemvor would stop looking to him for answers. Still, he knew someone had to make a decision, and, with Midnight missing, Kelemvor would not be the one. So Adon stood and unfolded the map Deverell had given them. After a moment of thought, he placed a finger on a dot a few miles down the river. “We’ll go to Hill’s Edge,” he said. “Midnight will need a strong horse to cross the plains, and so will we.”
Adon started to kick dirt on the fire, but Kelemvor stopped him. Placing a hand on the hilt of his sword, the fighter turned toward the river. Fifty feet away, the woman who had been watching them was approaching.
The cleric followed Kelemvor’s gaze. “Is that you, Midnight?” he called.
The woman continued to approach. “No, it’s not,” she replied, her voice soft and melodious. “May I approach your camp anyway?”
Having spent the night staring into the fire, Adon’s eyes were unaccustomed to the dark. Even in the eerie light of the sparkling sky, he couldn’t see the mysterious woman clearly. Nevertheless, he was the one who replied. “You’re welcome here.”
A few seconds later, she stepped into the firelight and Adon gasped. The woman stood as tall as Kelemvor, with silky brown hair and deep brown eyes. Her complexion was fair, though the glittering sky cast over it a multihued tint that lent an ethereal quality to her beauty. Her face was oval-shaped, with a leanness that contrasted the fullness of her striking figure. In contrast to the eloquence of her beauty, she wore the rugged clothes of one who lived in the wilderness.
A wave of hope washed over Adon. Perhaps his prayers had been answered. “Sune?” he asked meekly.
The woman blushed. “You flatter me.”
Adon could not help frowning as his momentary excitement faded.
Noticing the cleric’s disappointment, the woman feigned disappointment herself and said, “If only the Goddess of Beauty is welcome in your camp—”
Kelemvor raised a hand and said, “Don’t be offended. We didn’t expect anybody to wander into our camp, especially you—er, I mean a beautiful woman.”
“A beautiful woman,” she repeated distantly. “Do you think so?”
“Certainly,” Adon said, bowing. “Adon of—well, just Adon, and Kelemvor Lyonsbane at your service.”
The woman bowed in return. “Well met. Javia of Chauntea at yours.”
“Well met,” Adon replied. If she served Chauntea, the Great Mother, that meant the woman was a druid. That explained her presence in the wilderness.
“I’ve been watching your prayer fire,” Javia explained. “Was it Sune you were praying to?”
“Yes,” Adon responded glumly.
Javia stared at the scar on the cleric’s cheek. Her compassionate eyes showed that she understood the remorse the blemish would bring to a follower of the Goddess of Beauty.
Adon turned his head to hide the scar.
Javia blushed and smiled shyly. “Forgive me. I don’t often meet travelers here and I forget how to act.”
“What are you doing out here?” Kelemvor asked.
Sensing the fighter’s suspicion, the woman said, “Perhaps I’m interrupting your service—”
“Not at all, Javia,” Adon protested, taking her by the hand and guiding her to a log beside the fire. “Sit. Please.”
“Yes,” Kelemvor said moodily. “Praying wasn’t solving our problems anyway.”
Javia arched her eyebrows in alarm. “Don’t say that!”
“I didn’t mean—,” Kelemvor began, recoiling from Javia’s vehement response. Then he decided it was better to be honest and explain what he meant. “In our case, it’s true.” He pointed at Adon’s cheek. “All the praying in the world didn’t get rid of that scar, and Adon got it in Sune’s service.”
“Surely not in Sune’s service!” Javia exclaimed, her voice sharp with reproach. “She is no goddess of filthy war.”
“Do you think that’s why she let me suffer?” Adon asked, his grief working its way to the surface again. “Because I fought in the wrong cause?”
Javia’s face softened and she turned to Adon. “Your cause may have been right enough,” she said. “But expecting a goddess to serve a worshiper …” She let the sentence trail off as though Adon ought to know better than to expect something like that.
Adon felt his anger rising. “If not a worshiper, then who?” he demanded.
Javia looked puzzled for a moment, as if she had never considered the question. Finally, she answered, “Herself—who else?”
“Herself,” Adon echoed indignantly.
“Yes,” Javia replied. “Sune, for example, cannot concern herself with the welfare of her followers. The Goddess of Beauty must think only of beauty. If she contemplates ugliness, no matter how briefly or for what purpose, then she brings ugliness into her soul. If that happened, we would no longer have a pure ideal—all beauty would contain some ugliness.”
“Tell me,” the cleric demanded angrily, “what do you think worshipers matter to the gods?”
Kelemvor sighed. To the warrior, many things were worth arguing about—but religion was not one of them.
Javia regarded Adon for a long time. Finally, her voice warm but condescending, she replied, “We’re like gold.”
“Like gold,” Adon repeated, sensing that Javia’s meaning was not to be found on the surface of her words. “So we’re the coins in some godly purse?”