“Are you sure?” the spectre asked, disappointed. “I can’t wait much longer.”
“I’m not Jessica,” Midnight answered firmly. Then, more gently, she added, “Don’t worry. I’m sure she’ll be along when her time comes. You can wait for her.”
“No, I can’t!” the spectre snapped. “I don’t have time—you’ll see!” With that, he turned and drifted away.
After the soul spectre left, Midnight continued down the street. Several times, shades approached her, demanding to know if she was a loved one or friend, though they seldom seemed as confused as the old man. Midnight was able to excuse herself with nothing more than polite denials, then continue on her way.
For the first two blocks, the road was lined with empty shops, often with living quarters located directly overhead. Midnight poked her head into the doors of four of the buildings as she went. Each time, a small party of spectres greeted her—twice with polite invitations to join them, once with disinterested rudeness, and once with a rather hostile demand to be left alone.
As Midnight progressed farther into the city, she grew increasingly impressed by the thoughtfulness and planning that had gone into building it. The streets all intersected at right angles, and the blocks were more or less uniform in size. But the dwellings themselves were not drab or uninteresting. The buildings had been designed with a stoic artistry. They had clean, square forms and symmetrical plans that lent themselves to function as well as beauty. Exterior walls were adorned with simple etched lines that echoed the rectangular designs of the structures. Doors were always placed in the center of the building, with an equal number of windows located in similar positions on either side of them. The simple architecture left Midnight with a relaxed, peaceful feeling.
The city’s third block was entirely taken by a single structure that rose all the way to the cavern’s roof. This building lacked both doors and windows, its only opening being a great arch located exactly in the middle of the block. Midnight went to this arch and entered the massive structure.
She emerged in a great open courtyard. On three sides, it was lined by three-story promenades. Behind the promenades, arched doorways led into spacious rooms. A massive building, supported by white columns of the finest marble, dominated the end of the courtyard to Midnight’s left. The altar in its entrance suggested it was a temple.
At the other end of the courtyard, dozens of spectres lounged on the edge of a marble fountain. In the center of the fountain, a magnificent spout of water shot high into the air and turned to mist. A strange harmony, at once unsettling and calming, radiated from the fountain, and Midnight found herself drawn toward its waters.
The spectres near the font seemed oblivious to her presence, so she approached and peered into its pool. The water was as still as ice and as black as Bhaal’s heart, but also as clear as glass. The magic-user felt as though she were looking into another world, where peace and tranquility reigned supreme.
Beneath the water lay a great plain of shimmering light. It sprawled in all directions as far as Midnight could see, and she felt as though she could see to the edge of the Realms. The plain was entirely featureless, save that millions of tiny figures milled about on it.
Gazing at the magnificent plain, a mood of serenity and destiny supplanted the mage’s sorrow concerning Adon’s loss and her anxiety about Kelemvor’s absence. She felt it would not be long before she and her old friends were reunited. Midnight did not know why she felt this way, but suspected it had something to do with the vast plain below.
A deep, rough voice interrupted the magic-user’s reverie. “I’m sorry to see you here.”
Midnight looked up and saw a spectre addressing her. The shade was familiar, and she could not help flinching. The voice belonged to Kae Deverell, but to her, the form would forever be Bhaal’s.
“Don’t be sorry,” Midnight said.
Deverell took a seat on the fountain next to her. “And your friends—I forget their names—how do they fare?”
“I don’t know about Kelemvor,” Midnight replied, “but Adon’s down here somewhere.”
“And the halfling?” Deverell asked. “What about Sneakabout?”
“He died in Yellow Snake Pass,” Midnight said. She did not elaborate. The memory of Cyric’s treachery pained her too much.
Deverell sighed. “I had hoped to hear better news.”
A spectre leaped through Deverell and dove into the fountain, then sank toward the plain in long, graceful spirals. The lord commander draped a hand into the water and watched the spectre descend with a mixture of envy and fear.
“Oblivion—how it draws us,” Deverell mused. He closed his eyes as though he were pulling a long draft from his mug back at High Horn. Though his hand did not disturb the water’s glassy surface, the dark liquid was draining away the pain and anguish that came with being dead. It was also draining away the Cormyrian’s memories of life.
At length, he withdrew his hand. The time for him to leap into the pool would come soon enough.
As soon as they died, the souls of the dead were drawn by Myrkul’s magic to one of the thousands of places like this, the Fountain of Nepenthe—a pool or well filled with the black Waters of Forgetfulness. In normal times, Myrkul’s attraction was so strong that a soul spectre would immediately leap into dark waters, then emerge on the plain on the other side.
With Myrkul barred from his home, however, his magic had been considerably weakened. Many soul spectres were finding the strength to resist his attraction—although only temporarily. All through the Realms, soul spectres were gathered outside long forgotten wells and pools and fountains, vainly attempting to resist the final call of death.
Deverell tore his thoughts away from the fountain and turned to Midnight. “Tell me, who has the tablets now? What will happen to Cormyr and the Realms?”
“Kelemvor has one of the tablets,” Midnight said, unaware that she was lying. “And the other is here somewhere.”
“Here?” Deverell asked, perplexed. “What would it be doing here?”
“It’s in Bone Castle,” Midnight explained. “Myrkul took it.”
“Then the Realms are doomed,” Deverell replied flatly.
“Unless I can get to the castle and recover the tablet,” Midnight said, dipping her fingers into the fountain’s glistening waters. Unlike Deverell, she caused expanding rings of ripples. The water both chilled and comforted her.
“Stop!” Deverell yelled, reaching for her arm. His fingers closed right through her bones, leaving the flesh cold and numb. “You’re alive!”
“Yes,” Midnight said reluctantly, unsure what to make of Deverell’s reaction.
“Pull your hand out of the water!”
Midnight obeyed, wondering if she had offended the soul spectre by touching the fountain.
This calmed Deverell. “You’re alive—and that means there is hope,” he said, “but not if you let those waters drain your memory. Now what is this about Bone Castle?”
“That’s where the other tablet is,” Midnight explained. “I’ve got to get inside and recover it. Can you take me there?”
Deverell’s form grew even whiter, if that was possible. “No,” he muttered and turned away. “I’m not ready for the Fountain of Nepenthe. And even if I was, I’ve never been to the Realm of the Dead.”
“This isn’t it?” Midnight demanded.
“Not by an arrow’s long flight,” Deverell said, shaking his head. “We’re in Kanaglym, according to the others.”
“Kanaglym?”
“Built by the dwarves when the High Moor was fertile and warm.”
Midnight could not imagine a time when the High Moor was fertile, much less warm. “But there are no dwarves here now,” she observed, looking around the fountain.