Cyric decided that it was time to take the tablets and find the Celestial Stairway. He turned back to the middle of the roof, where Midnight barely sat upright. The mage continued to point her hand in his general direction. Her face was too masked in pain for the thief to tell whether or not she was concentrating on magic.
Cyric considered stabbing Midnight again. But then he looked at her wound and the pool of blood in which she sat. Recalling some of the incredible things he had seen her magic do, the thief decided it would be wiser to let her bleed to death on her own. Besides, with the tide of battle turning, he did not think there was much time to waste.
The thief went over to Adon and pulled the saddlebags out of the cleric’s grasp. Adon feebly tried to rise and stop him, making it as far as his knees.
“Thanks,” Cyric said cheerfully. Taking aim at the bloody spot on the cleric’s shirt, the thief kicked him as hard as he could—twice. “I’d kill you, but I don’t have any time to waste.”
Then Cyric threw the saddlebags containing the Tablets of Fate over his shoulder and left the tower.
18
Ao Speaks
After Cyric left Blackstaff’s tower, Midnight collapsed and fell unconscious. Adon dragged himself to her side. He tore a ragged piece of cloth off the mage’s sleeve and used it to stanch the bleeding from her wound. The bandage did not work completely, but at least the flow slowed to a trickle.
As they lay on the roof, Adon watched Waterdeep’s soldiers defend the city. At first, the guard companies and watch regiments simply kept the denizens from breaking through their lines again. Then, as the attackers’ charge lost momentum, the defenders started beating the horde back. Within minutes, Waterdeep’s troops were advancing, and a short time later they were pursuing the denizens back toward the Dock Ward.
But the defeat of Myrkul’s host did little to encourage Adon. Each time he took a breath, his lungs filled with fire, and each time he exhaled, bolts of pain shot through his torso. Periodically, he fell into fits of uncontrollable coughing and wheezing. Cyric’s contemptuous kicks had broken two ribs, in addition to mangling Adon’s already injured lungs. Several times, the cleric tried to find the strength to stand and go after Cyric and the tablets. A wave of unbearable agony always forced him back to his knees.
Forty minutes later, a griffon carrying two riders approached Blackstaff’s tower and landed. A tall, black-haired man leaped off the beast, examined Kelemvor’s bloodless body, then inspected the rest of the scene. Finally, he walked over to where Adon and Midnight lay.
“What happened?” Blackstaff demanded, not bothering with introductions. The wizard had never met Adon, but he had no doubt about the cleric’s identity.
“Cyric took the—” Adon fell into a violent attack of coughing and could not finish the sentence.
After waiting a few moments for the fit to pass, Blackstaff said, “Wait right here—I’ll get something to help.”
He disappeared into his tower, then returned an instant later with two vials of murky green fluid. “This is a restorative. It will ease your pain.” He gave one to Adon, then kneeled and poured the other into Midnight’s mouth.
Adon accepted the vial and drank it down. Although he had never met Blackstaff Arunsun, the black-bearded man’s bearing left little doubt of his identity. As the mage had promised, the potion dulled the cleric’s pain and put an end to his coughing. Though Adon felt far from hardy, he found the strength to stand.
“Cyric has the Tablets of Fate!” Adon said. “You’ve got to—”
Midnight opened her eyes. “Khelben?” she said. “Do you have the tablets?” She still felt dizzy and weak, but her strength, like the cleric’s, was slowly returning.
Instead of answering Midnight’s question, the bearded mage began asking his own. “What happened to Kelemvor? Where’s Elminster?”
Midnight and Adon each tried to answer a different question simultaneously. The result was a garbled mumble.
Blackstaff held up his hand. “Let’s start from the beginning. Midnight?”
Midnight told Blackstaff about tracking Myrkul back to the wizard’s tower. She quickly explained how the Lord of the Dead had stolen the tablet from the vault, then described how they had lured the god back to the roof and destroyed him. “By the time we recovered both tablets, his denizens were closing in on your tower,” she finished. “Elminster went to the Pool of Loss to cut them off from Myrkul’s city.”
“Then Cyric attacked,” Adon said. He briefly recounted how Cyric had injured him again, killed Kelemvor, stabbed Midnight, and finally taken the tablets and left.
When the cleric was softly relating the specifics of the green-eyed fighter’s death, Midnight turned away and tried in vain to hold back her tears.
Blackstaff considered the story for a minute, then said, “I’ll go and retrieve Elminster from the Pool of Loss—”
“What about Cyric and the tablets?” Adon interrupted. “You’ve got to catch him before he reaches the Celestial Stairway!”
“Patience, Adon,” Blackstaff said calmly. “Unless he knows where the Stairway is, Cyric will not find it easily. Only people of extraordinary power can see it. We have plenty of time to locate him and recover the tablets.”
The wizard had no way of knowing that Cyric was at that moment hiking up the side of Mount Waterdeep that faced the sea. On top of the mountain, he saw a wide, ever-changing ribbon of colors he did not doubt was his destination.
Perhaps it was the fact that he possessed both of the Tablets of Fate. Perhaps, in recovering the tablets, he had established that he was as extraordinary as Blackstaff and Midnight. But whatever the reason, the Celestial Stairway had appeared to Cyric the instant he set foot on the mountain.
Back on Blackstaff’s tower, however, the bearded mage remained oblivious to Cyric’s progress. “When Elminster and I get back, we’ll recover the tablets and return them to Helm.” Although he did not say it, the wizard was concerned for his old friend’s safety. If Elminster was as tired as Blackstaff, the ancient sage could be in trouble. “For now, I’ll send someone to look after you two.”
“You can go get Elminster,” Midnight said. “But I’m going after Cyric now. You don’t know that murderer like I do.” She looked toward the Celestial Stairway, fearing in her heart that the thief was already standing at its base.
“I’m going, too,” Adon added.
“But you’re wounded!” Blackstaff objected. He pointed at the bloodstains on their clothes. “Both of you!”
“I feel well enough to fight,” Adon said. With his broken ribs, the cleric knew he would be risking further injury to his lungs. But at the moment, his own safety did not matter as much as preventing Cyric from returning the tablets.
“The potion only numbs your pain,” Blackstaff cautioned. “It does not heal your injuries. You’ll collapse the instant you exert yourselves.”
“I’ll take that chance,” Midnight growled, in no mood to wait for Elminster—or anybody else—to avenge Kelemvor’s death. She was aware of her wound, but it caused her only a little discomfort. Blackstaff’s potion was an effective one. “Do you have another dagger I can borrow?” she asked.
“And where’s my mace?” Adon muttered, struggling to keep the weakness out of his voice. Though his pain had subsided, he still felt far from strong. But he was not going to let Midnight go after Cyric alone.
Blackstaff shook his head, frustrated by their insistence. He said, “As you wish. But allow me to persuade a pair of griffon riders to lend you their wings.”