Трой Деннинг - Waterdeep

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.”

The wizard went to his rider and held a brief conversation. The griffon took to its wings and flew toward the south, then Blackstaff disappeared into his tower. A minute later, he returned with the weapon the mage had requested. Soon, two griffons landed atop his tower.

“The griffon riders will take you wherever you wish to go,” he said flatly. “But I’ve instructed them to bring you back the instant you show signs of pain. Elminster and I will return within the hour. Will you at least be here to meet us?”

Midnight glanced at the corpse on the roof, then said, “Assuming we haven’t found Cyric, yes.” She had no intention of returning if they found the thief, for all that would matter then was revenge. Looking back at Blackstaff, she added, “Thanks for your help.”

Blackstaff smiled weakly. “No … thank you. What you’ve done has benefitted us all. Good hunting!” The wizard turned back to his tower.

Midnight and Adon went to the griffons. The riders, eyeing the pair’s wounds doubtfully, helped them into the passenger saddles.

“Where to?” asked Adon.

Midnight looked at the ribbon of scintillating colors rising off Mount Waterdeep. “Whether Cyric knows it or not, he must go to the top of the mountain. It’s wisest to look up there first.”

“That’s easy enough,” said one of the riders. “We keep our griffons there.”

Five minutes later, the griffons landed just north of the mountain’s summit. A stone tower stood atop the peak, and a covered stable sat fifty feet to the east. Inside the stable were over two dozen griffons, all of which had suffered serious injury—torn wings, gashed heads, broken legs. An even greater number of men tended the beasts’ injuries. The griffons were not the only ones who had suffered. Human groans rolled out of the tower’s door, as well.

Midnight and Adon dismounted, then looked around the Peaktop Eyrie. Directly ahead, the northern ridge of Mount Waterdeep descended at a gentle grade, gradually disappearing into the magnificent temple complexes and grand villas of the city’s wealthy Sea Ward. To the east, the mountain dropped away steeply, ending in the sheer cliff that marked the western boundaries of the Castle Ward. The eight spires of Piergeiron’s Palace poked over the head of the cliff. Beyond the spires, the city of Waterdeep stretched across the benchland like a magnificent diorama, complete with smoking chimneys and fluttering flags. Behind Midnight and Adon, to the south, a series of wooden piers and granite battlements girded the murky waters of the harbor.

To the west, the peak fell away in a hundred-foot cliff. The terrain then sloped down five hundred feet to a defensive wall guarding the base of the mountain. Below the wall, a precipice plunged into the azure waters of the Sea of Swords.

But it was not what lay below the mountain that caught Midnight’s interest. A shimmering path of amber and pearl rose off the top of the peak and disappeared into the heavens. The translucent path simultaneously looked solid and immaterial.

As Midnight watched, the stairway changed from amber and pearl into a set of white steps. A moment later, it shifted again, this time becoming a ramp of pure silver. The stairway continued changing forms every few seconds.

“What are you looking at?” asked Adon. The only thing he saw to the west of the peak was a cliff.

Midnight pointed at the air above the cliff. “The Celestial Stairway,” she said.

Adon peered at the sky. He still saw nothing. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

The griffon riders showed the pair through the tower and stable, but there was no sign of Cyric. As she left the tower, Midnight concluded, “Cyric’s not here.” The mage noticed that all the walking and climbing stairs had caused her wound to bleed more heavily, and she felt a little dizzy.

“Then it will be difficult to find him,” Adon said, sitting down on the steps to the tower. Unlike Midnight, his injuries were causing him a great deal of distress. Though Blackstaff’s potion had taken the edge off the cleric’s pain, he was having trouble breathing and he felt extremely weak.

“We’ll find him,” Midnight growled. “When we do, I’ll kill him.”

The mage’s stomach stirred uneasily. She had never plotted in advance to use her magic to kill someone. To her, magic had always been a defensive shield, a means of earning respect and power, a joyful art—never a weapon to be used in anger or for vengeance.

“I won’t make the mistake of stopping you again,” Adon said, remembering bitterly that he had talked his friends into sparing Cyric’s life. He could not help being angry with himself. If he had kept quiet, Kelemvor would be alive right now. “But I’ll kill him first if I can.”

The griffon riders frowned and exchanged uneasy glances. They were accustomed to death and combat, but their charges sounded as though they were contemplating murder. Blackstaff had said nothing about the strangers being exempt from the normal laws of the city.

“I’m not sure you should be talking like that,” one of the riders said. “Blackstaff said—”

“Quiet!” Midnight hissed, looking toward the south. “Into the building, quickly!”

Cyric was standing on the south side of the summit, studying the backside of the griffon eyrie. The saddlebags containing the tablets were slung over his left shoulder, and he held his sword in his right hand.