Трой Деннинг: Waterdeep

The superstitious captain, already nervous about a Zhentish trireme that had been following them, had blamed his bad luck on his passengers. When the storm finally let up, the captain had immediately turned toward the nearest land and put the three companions ashore.

A rustle sounded from the lean-to and Midnight turned to see Adon creeping toward her. In his right hand, the cleric carried a mace he had bought from a sailor. With his left, he held a set of saddlebags. One bag contained a flat stone about a foot wide and a foot and a half high—the Tablet of Fate their company had recovered in Tantras.

Even now, in the middle of the night, Adon’s sandy hair was meticulously brushed. His build was slight, though muscular enough and well proportioned, and his green eyes sparkled with a light of their own. Adon’s other features were symmetrical if somewhat plain, save for the red scar that traced a dark path from the left eye to his jawline.

The scar was a grim reminder of the personal crisis that the cleric had suffered over the past few weeks. On the night of the Arrival, when Ao had cast his gods from the Planes, all of the clerics in the Realms had lost their power. Unless they were within a mile of their deity, their prayers for spells simply went unanswered. At first, this had not shaken the optimistic Adon, and he had remained faithful to his deity, Sune, the Goddess of Beauty.

Then, near Tilverton, he had been scarred in an ambush. At first, Adon had feared the blemish was punishment for some unknown offense against his goddess. This feeling had grown steadily stronger. Finally, during the Battle of Shadowdale, Elminster suffered an accident and Adon found himself powerless to help the ancient sage. The cleric then fell into a catatonic depression. When he finally recovered, several weeks later, his faith in Sune had been lost. Instead, the cleric had focused his fervor and dedication on his fellow man.

“Why are you awake?” Midnight asked, whispering loud enough to make herself heard over the wind.

Crouching next to her, Adon answered in a whisper, “Who can sleep with that racket in his ear?” He nodded at Kelemvor’s slumbering form, then offered, “I’ll take over if you’re tired.”

“Not yet,” Midnight said. She turned back to the toppled willow tree. The shadow she had observed earlier was still crouched behind the tree’s upturned roots.

“Is something wrong?” Adon asked, noting Midnight’s interest in the willow. He followed her gaze and noted the dark form skulking behind the tangle. “What’s that?”

Midnight shrugged and replied, “A shadow I’ve been watching.”

The moon poked its face through the clouds and cast a silvery light into the grove. On the top of the shadow, Midnight could see the silhouette of a head and shoulders.

“It looks like a man,” Adon observed, still whispering.

“So it does.”

The cleric looked toward the lean-to. “We should wake Kelemvor.”

Adon’s suggestion made sense. Neither the cleric nor Midnight were at full strength. Like the abilities of all mages, Midnight’s powers had become unstable since the fall of the gods. Adon’s condition was no better. Even if he had still believed in his deity, Sune was certainly too distant for him to call upon her power.

But Midnight wanted to let Kelemvor snore a while longer. She was not convinced the shadow was dangerous, and if it was, the mage didn’t want to alarm it with a sudden flurry of activity. Besides, even without their spells, she and Adon were capable fighters. “We can take care of ourselves if need be,” she said. “But I don’t think there’s any danger.”

A cloud covered the moon again, plunging the wood back into darkness. Adon squinted at the root mass, puzzled by Midnight’s assertion. “Why not?”

“If that’s a man, he means us no harm. He’d have done something by now if he did,” Midnight answered. “He wouldn’t be sitting there watching us.”

“If he didn’t mean us harm, he would have come into camp by now,” Adon countered.

“Not necessarily,” Midnight said. “He might be afraid to.”

“We hardly look like thieves,” Adon said, waving his hand at himself and the magic-user. “Who’d have reason to fear us?”

Midnight did not answer immediately and avoided the cleric’s gaze. As soon as Adon had asked his question, it had occurred to her that the shadow might belong to Cyric, the trio’s missing comrade. It had been only a few weeks since the thief had disappeared on the River Ashaba, but already it seemed that he’d been gone for years. She missed his grim wit, his aloof bearing, even his dark temper.

After Midnight did not respond to his question for several moments, Adon turned toward the lean-to. The magic-user grasped his shoulder to keep him from leaving. “It might be Cyric,” she whispered.

Spinning around to face Midnight, Adon hissed, “Cyric! It couldn’t be!”

“Why not?” Midnight asked, glancing back at the shadow. “The trireme that worried our ship captain did seem to be following us.”

“That’s still no reason to think Cyric was aboard,” Adon countered. “How could he have known we were leaving Tantras, much less which ship we were on?”

“Cyric has his ways,” Midnight said grimly.

Adon frowned and squeezed his mace until his knuckles turned white. “Yes, he proved that in Tantras.”

Both Midnight and Adon turned to look at Kelemvor. The fighter had seen Cyric last, in Tantras. A Zhentish assassin had attacked Kelemvor, but failed to kill him. When the battle was over, he spotted Cyric in the crowd, watching the attempted murder.

Removing Midnight’s hand from his shoulder, Adon declared, “I’m getting Kelemvor.”

“But he’ll kill Cyric,” Midnight said, concern creeping into her voice.

“Good,” Adon responded. The cleric again turned toward the lean-to.

“How can you say that?”

“He’s joined the Zhentilar,” Adon snapped over his shoulder. “Or have you forgotten?”

According to rumor, Cyric had been with one of the Zhentish armies that had come to attack Tantras. Given Cyric’s presence at the attempt on Kelemvor’s life, Adon believed the rumor.

“What did you expect?” Midnight inquired, still unconvinced of her friend’s betrayal. “Cyric’s a schemer. Faced with joining Bane’s Zhentilar or dying, he’d join. That doesn’t mean he’s betrayed us.”

“That doesn’t mean he didn’t,” Adon said, still speaking over his shoulder. The wind gusted, whipping the grove into a clamor of rattling branches.

“A few weeks ago, Cyric was a trusted friend and a good ally,” Midnight said. “Or have you forgotten that he was the one who saved our lives in Shadowdale?”

“No,” Adon admitted, finally turning around to face Midnight again. “And I haven’t forgotten that Cyric would have left me for the executioner’s axe if you hadn’t refused to abandon me.”

Midnight didn’t know what to say, for the cleric was right. After Elminster disappeared during the Battle of Shadowdale, the people of the town had convened a hasty trial and accused Adon and Midnight of the old sage’s death. Unfortunately, Elminster’s disappearance had also been the event that triggered Adon’s catatonic depression, so he was unable to say anything in his own defense. He and Midnight were quickly found guilty and condemned to death.

The night before the scheduled execution, Cyric had come to rescue Midnight. The thief had been disgusted by Adon’s collapse during the trial, however, and had taken the cleric along only upon Midnight’s insistence. Then, as the trio had fled down the River Ashaba, Cyric had treated Adon like an unwanted dog, speaking to the cleric only to insult him, and occasionally even hitting him. Midnight had been forced to intervene on Adon’s behalf many times.