She tried to put thoughts of failure aside. The incantation had worked flawlessly, and the mage realized that she had no reason to believe that magic was unstable outside the Realms. For several moments, Midnight remained sitting with her eyes closed.
“Do I know you?” asked a man’s voice.
The voice seemed vaguely familiar, though Midnight could not place it. She opened her eyes and, to her surprise, saw a hundred people staring at her. The woman Midnight had saved was nowhere in sight. She had vanished without thanking her savior.
The man who had spoken stood directly ahead of Midnight, wearing a scarlet robe trimmed with gold. He was Rhaymon of Lathander.
“What are you doing here, Rhaymon?” Midnight asked, standing. The last time she had seen him was at the trial in Shadowdale. He had been very much alive.
“Then I do know you!” Rhaymon cried, delighted. “I was right!”
However, the cleric didn’t answer Midnight’s question. In fact, he had died in the forest outside of Shadowdale, when an oak tree’s limb became mobile and strangled him. He rarely cared to talk about the experience.
“Yes, you know me,” Midnight confirmed. “You testified against Adon and me at the trial for Elminster’s murder.”
Rhaymon frowned. “Elminster? But he’s not dead … is he?”
“No,” Midnight said quickly. “The trial was a mistake.”
Rhaymon frowned, wishing he could remember more about Midnight’s trial, for his memories had begun to slowly slip away since he’d come to the plain in the Realm of the Dead. But the cleric did remember that Midnight had not been executed. “I don’t remember much about the trial,” he admitted. “But you escaped, so, as the faithful of Lathander say, ‘a bright dawn made the dark night worthwhile.’ ”
“I’m not sure I’d say that,” Midnight replied, thinking of the people Cyric had murdered to gain her freedom.
Rhaymon did not take note of Midnight’s uneasiness. “You were brave to rescue that woman,” he said, wagging a finger at her. “But you were also foolish. You won’t save her by stopping just one of them.”
“What was that thing?” Midnight asked, pointing at the spot where she had imprisoned the mobile mound of flesh.
“One of Myrkul’s denizens,” Rhaymon explained.
Midnight’s heart jumped and she suddenly felt very vulnerable. She noticed that the spectators were still staring at her. “I wish they’d stop watching me like that,” Midnight noted uneasily, glaring back at the crowd.
Rhaymon turned and addressed the gapers. “Go on—there’s nothing to see here.”
When the crowd continued to stare, Rhaymon took Midnight by the elbow and guided her away. “Don’t mind them. They’re curious about your eyes.”
“My eyes?” Midnight asked.
“Yes. A moment ago, your eyes were closed. The dead don’t close their eyes, you know.” Rhaymon stopped and studied Midnight for a moment. “I suppose that means you’re alive?”
“And what if it does?” Midnight asked, looking away and avoiding a direct answer to Rhaymon’s question.
“Nothing. It’s just unusual.” The cleric guided her forward again. “Most dead don’t use magic—not unless they’re liches. By the way, which are you: undead or alive?”
Midnight sighed. “I’m alive, Rhaymon. And I need your help.”
“What do you want?” he asked, leading the way around a group of old ladies—worshipers of Lliira, the Goddess of Joy—rolling on the ground, laughing.
“I need to find Bone Castle,” Midnight replied. “The fate of the whole world depends on my success.” She did not say more. Until Rhaymon agreed to help, it seemed wise to reveal as little as possible.
“Bone Castle!” Rhaymon exclaimed. “That’s in Myrkul’s city!”
“Isn’t this Myrkul’s realm?” Midnight asked.
Rhaymon shook his head. “Not quite. But you can get there easily enough.”
“Will you help me?”
“What you say must be true,” Rhaymon replied, “or you’d never risk the kind of eternal suffering you’ll find in Myrkul’s city. I’m sure that Lord Lathander would want me to do what I can.”
“Thank you,” Midnight said. “Where do we go?”
Rhaymon pointed to his right. “West.”
“West?” Midnight asked, searching the barren sky for something by which to tell her direction. “How do know that’s west?”
Rhaymon smiled. “I don’t. But when you’re dead, you acquire a certain sense for this place that I can’t explain. You’ll just have to trust me on this—and a hundred things like it.”
Considering the difficulties she had encountered so far, Midnight thought that seemed wise.
Rhaymon led the way through the milling crowd, pausing or turning aside every now and then to make sure they did not cross paths with a denizen. After what must have been hours of walking, Midnight began to stumble.
“How much farther is it?” she asked.
“A lot farther,” Rhaymon answered, continuing forward steadily.
“We’ve got to find some way to get there faster,” Midnight gasped between panted breaths. “I’ve got to meet Kelemvor in Waterdeep.”
“There is no faster way to travel,” Rhaymon noted calmly. “Unless you care to attract denizens. But don’t worry. Time and distance are different here. Whether it takes you a day or a month to reach Bone Castle, the time that passes on Toril will be only a fraction of the time that passes here.”
They continued walking for several more hours, then the mage could go no farther. She collapsed and slept while Rhaymon watched over her. After a long time, Midnight woke refreshed and they continued their journey. The mage took the opportunity to have Rhaymon explain what he knew about Myrkul’s realm.
Adjusting his pace so that Midnight walked at his side, Rhaymon said, “Myrkul has two domains: his city in Hades, which is where you are going and which he rules absolutely, and the Fugue Plain, which is a demiplane outside his city that he oversees as part of his duties. When somebody dies in the Realms, his spirit is drawn to one of the thousands of gates between the Realms and the Lord of the Dead’s two domains. The spirits of Myrkul’s faithful go directly to his city in Hades.”
Here, Rhaymon stopped walking and interrupted his lecture. “You might actually beat your friend Kelemvor to Waterdeep, you know.”
“How?” Midnight asked, also stopping. The idea of using the Realm of the Dead as a short cut delighted her.
“The chances are good that there’s a gate between Waterdeep and Myrkul’s city,” Rhaymon answered. “If you can escape from the city at all, you can return to the Realms via the gate to Waterdeep.”
“Thanks for the suggestion,” Midnight replied grimly, starting to walk again.
Rhaymon resumed his pace and his lecture. “Although Myrkul’s faithful go directly to his city, everybody else comes to the Fugue Plain, which is really a waiting area for the spirits of the dead. Here, Myrkul’s denizens—who were once his worshipers, I suppose—harvest the spirits of the Faithless and the False—”
“The Faithless and the False?” Midnight interrupted.
“The False are those who betray their gods,” Rhaymon explained. “The Faithless don’t worship any gods.”
“What do the denizens do with the spirits?” Midnight asked, thinking of Adon and his break with Sune.
“Take them to Myrkul’s city for an eternity of suffering, I’d imagine,” Rhaymon noted calmly. “I don’t know—but I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough.”
“No doubt,” Midnight replied darkly.
“After the denizens cull out the spirits of the Faithless and the False, the Faithful wait here for their gods to take them to a final resting place in the Planes.”