moment after striking the water now sank beneath the bloody waves.
Several hours passed, and Midnight would not speak. Liane had been told of Varden's death, and she too had kept to herself.
At highsun the following day, Midnight joined Kelemvor in the private quarters Bjorn had set aside for his guests.
The mage was still badly shaken. "How could I have done that?" she asked as she entered the cabin.
"He deserved death," Kelemvor concluded coldly. "An assassin doesn't feel remorse. He doesn't care about the agony he
causes to those left behind. You've done the Realms a favor."
"That's not what I mean," Midnight said. "The spell I used. It should have been a fireball spell. That was all I had time to learn
when we reached the Sembian's safe house. But something else happened. Something else completely."
Kelemvor shrugged. "Magic is unstable, remember? We both know that."
Midnight shook her head, trying to scatter the unwanted questions that had grown there since the incident. "Was that all?" the
mage asked.
Kelemvor sensed the apprehension in his lover's voice. "Aye," he said, reassuring the raven-haired mage. "What else could it
be?"
Midnight shuddered. "No more talk," she said as she drew the fighter close to her. "We've been apart for far too long to talk this
day away." Kelemvor kissed her then smiled. "I told you there would be time for us," he reminded her softly.
It was the following day when the lovers left the cabin. On deck, they noticed Adon talking with Liane. The scarred cleric placed
a comforting hand on the woman's back as he gestured out to sea. Liane sniffed the flower she held tightly in her hands, then leaned
over the railing and faced east, toward Scarsdale and the spot where Varden's body had sunk beneath the sea.
"I forgive you," she said quietly and cast the flower upon the waters of the Dragon Reach.
XI
TANTRAS
Bane was furious. News of the seizure of the Queen of the Night and Midnight's escape from Scarsdale had driven the Black
Lord into such a state that he had refused to speak to anyone the entire day. Now, sitting alone in his chambers in Scarsdale, the
fallen God of Strife muttered and cursed.
Suddenly the doors to his chamber opened and the sorceress, Tarana Lyr, entered. The blond madwoman was practically
drooling with excitement.
"Why do you disturb me when I left strict orders that I wished solitude?" Bane snarled, curling his hands into fists.
The sorceress took a deep breath. "There is a man who wishes to see you, Lord Bane. He waits just outside this chamber."
"A man?" Bane asked irascibly. "Not a god?"
The blond sorceress looked at the Black Lord in confusion. "A god, Lord Bane?"
The God of Strife closed his eyes, trying to control his anger. "The presence of another god would have been sufficient cause
for you to interrupt my meditation. Not the supplications of a mortal."
"I think you will see this mortal," Tarana purred, rocking back and forth on her heels.
Gripping the arms of his throne, Bane grimaced as he growled, "I do not trust you, mage, but show him in anyway."
Tarana Lyr sprinted across the length of the chamber and threw the door open wide. "He will see you now," she cooed from the
door.
A lean, dark-haired man entered the chamber, and the sorceress quietly closed the door behind him.
Bane leaped from his throne, suddenly, frighteningly aware that Fzoul had reclaimed his body.
"You!" the priest shouted in anger, and images of Cyric firing an arrow into the red-haired man at the Ashaba Bridge coursed
through the mind he shared with the God of Strife. The priest's anger pushed the Black Lord's consciousness down into his mind's
dark recesses. Fzoul reached out to the sorceress. "Give me your dagger!"
Cyric stood motionless, a thin film of sweat on his brow. "Lord Bane, you must listen -"
Fzoul grabbed the weapon from Tarana and advanced on the thief. "Not Bane, you imbecile! It is Fzoul Chembryl who will taste
your blood this day."
The hawk-nosed thief backed away from the red-haired priest. The last thing Cyric expected was to confront Fzoul. He was
certain that Bane would have crushed Fzoul's mind completely when he took the priest as an avatar.
Fzoul lunged with the knife and Cyric sidestepped as best he could. But maneuverability was limited in the chamber, and a
single misstep could mean death. Cyric couldn't risk drawing a weapon. If he killed the avatar of Bane, the explosion might level the
entire port town of Scarsdale - or the fallen god might choose his body to inhabit next. Worse still, the giggling blond sorceress was
chanting and seemed prepared to release a spell.
The red-haired priest feinted to the left then drove his body to the right, crashing into Cyric. Both men tumbled to the ground.
The thief's head struck the floor with a sharp crack, and Fzoul drove the dagger toward Cyric's right eye, then stopped. The priest's
eyes turned crimson, and Bane smiled as he stared into Cyric's wide, panic-filled eyes.
"Fzoul's anger surprises me sometimes," the Black Lord said casually as he climbed off the thief and handed the dagger back to
the sorceress. "He has a capacity for hate greater than most gods. Excepting myself, of course."
"No need, Lord Bane," Cyric said as he struggled to his feet.
Bane turned his back on Cyric and climbed to his throne. "I hadn't expected to see you, thief," the God of Strife noted.
"Reports from my assassins told me that you were dead. Of course, my assassins have hardly been reliable these days."
Cyric shook his head, and confusion crossed his face. "Wait a minute. What happened to Fzoul?" the thief asked numbly.
Settling back in his throne, the god laughed and tapped his forehead. "The priest struggles for freedom... in here. We have a
deal, you see. He does certain things for me. I allow him to rail at his fate and curse the world. Sometimes he gets out of control." The
Black Lord paused for a moment then smiled. "He'll be punished later," he said, seemingly to himself.
Looking off at the wall for a moment, Bane listened to Fzoul's cries for vengeance. The smile dropped from the god's face as he
turned back to the thief. "I see you wear my colors, Cyric."
The thief looked down at the Zhentilar garb he had taken from the Company of the Scorpions. "I suppose I do," Cyric answered
absently.
"Why have you come here, thief?" Bane asked gravely. "You should have known that a slow, painful death is the most you can
hope for at my hands. You are, after all, allied with forces that seek my destruction and the fall of my empire."
"No longer, Lord Bane," Cyric stated flatly. "I entered Scardale with a troop of Zhentilar two hundred men strong, and all loyal to
my command."
"Oh, I see," Bane snickered. "You seek to usurp my power. Shall I abdicate now, Lord Cyric?"
The hawk-nosed thief remained perfectly still, his arms at his sides, his hands open, palms to the god. The sorceress
approached Cyric, squinting as she stared into his face. Next she circled the man, examining him from every vantage.
"I have no intention of challenging you," Cyric said, ignoring the giggling madwoman who still circled around him." I wish to offer
my services to your cause."
A single laugh escaped the lips of the Black Lord. In his mind, Fzoul was screaming.
You cannot trust him, the red-haired priest cried to the Black Lord. He will betray us. The thief will destroy us both!
Bane sent a horde of gibbering, imaginary terrors to chase away Fzoul's consciousness. For your impudence, I may just make
him your commander when I'm done, Fzoul, the fallen god taunted to his avatar's mind as it retreated.
The god looked to the mortal who stood before him. "Tell me why I should believe you," Bane growled, the smile suddenly gone
from his face. "Your cursed friend, Kelemvor, played this game with me. He made a pact then reneged on his agreement at the first
opportunity. What guarantee do I have that you would not do the same?"
Cyric started at the mention of the fighter's name. Perhaps his former allies were still alive after all. He quickly pushed all
thoughts of Midnight and Kelemvor aside, though, and returned to the Black Lord's question. The answer was rather obvious. "None,"
the thief said firmly.
Bane raised a single eyebrow. "You're honest, anyway." The God of Strife paused then stood. "Give me some proof that you
favor my causes. Tell me about the mage."
Cyric told the Black Lord more than he ever intended to relate. He informed Bane of almost all that had occurred from the time
he first met Midnight in the walled city of Arabel, to the time they were separated on the Ashaba.
"I'm intrigued," Bane said as he paced back and forth in front of his throne. "For some reason, I actually think you're telling me
the truth."
"I am," Cyric told the god. "I've kept myself alive through much to offer my services to your cause." The thief smiled and then
explained the intricate series of deceptions that had kept him alive from the time Yarbro and Mikkel found him on the Ashaba's banks
to the present. Tarana stood by the thief with her arms folded across her breasts. The mad mage hugged herself tightly as the
bloodshed and violence was exposed by Cyric's casual narrative.
Bane shook his head as Cyric concluded his gory tale. "In the last few weeks, you've betrayed everything you once held dear.
What do I offer that you want so badly?"
"Power," Cyric snapped, a little too emphatically. "The power to shake empires one day."
The Black Lord's lips trembled in amusement. "You sound more like a rival than an ally, thief."
Cyric took a step toward Bane's throne. "The Realms are very large, Black Lord. When you have conquered them all, you will
certainly be able to spare a small kingdom for me. After all, a true god cannot bother himself with the petty day-to-day operations of
an entire world." The thief paused and took another step toward the God of Strife. "Give me a kingdom to run."
The Black Lord was stunned. "You have a gifted tongue, Cyric. Perhaps I should not waste such skills by slaughtering you
where you stand, though that would be amusing." Bane gestured for the sorceress to draw near. She had backed herself into a
corner, near the door. "Have Durrock released from his torments and brought before me. We are going to give the thief a chance to
hang himself."
Tarana bowed and raced from the chamber.
When she was gone, Bane walked to the thief's side. "Now that my insane assistant has scampered away, is there anything
about the mage you have not told me?"
A name flashed into Cyric's mind. Midnight's true name. The words were poised on the end of his tongue, but he drew them
back. With that information, the Black Lord could lay claim to the soul of the mage in an instant, and Cyric wasn't sure that that would
be at all acceptable. Not yet, anyway.
"No," Cyric said firmly, looking up into the god's eyes. "There is nothing else."
The door to the chamber opened, and Durrock was brought before the Black Lord in chains. Cyric flinched as he stared at the
assassin's disfigured face. Then he realized that the burn marks were very old. Only a few of the scars that lined his body had been
inflicted recently.
"I am in a forgiving mood this day, Durrock. I'm sure it won't last," Bane told the assassin then he returned to his throne. "I have
a task for you, assassin. You will travel to Tantras with this thief and spy on his former allies. You know them quite well, since you
escorted them into Scarsdale."
Durrock stiffened and bowed his head. Before the scarred assassin looked to the ground, Cyric saw an intense hatred flash in
Durrock's eves.
Bane continued. "As I told you before, I do not want the mage killed. The cleric is of no consequence. As for the fighter,
Kelemvor Lyonsbane, I want his head adorning a gate on this building as soon as possible. Have I made myself perfectly clear?"
Bane asked sharply.
"You have, Lord Bane," Durrock answered, his voice a growl.
"You have a question?" Bane said when Cyric didn't answer quickly.
The thief nodded, glanced at Durrock then looked back at Bane. "What if they discover the location of the... artifact we spoke
of? What if they try to take it from Tantras?"
Bane frowned and gripped his throne tightly. "Then, Cyric, they will all have to die."
* * * * *
It had been two days since the heroes left the Port of Scarsdale in the stolen galley. At night, a glowing spot on the horizon had
marked the location of the city the Queen of the Night journeyed toward. The cause of the unearthly light couldn't be explained, but as
the travelers drew closer to the city, the illumination grew brighter. Other than this strange light, the journey across the Dragon Reach
was uneventful. The slaves prowled the upper decks in shifts, luxuriating in the feel of the warm sun upon their faces. Adon, as usual,
kept to himself. Midnight divided her time between long hours with her spellbook and wonderful, tender moments of love with
Kelemvor.
After the escape from Scarsdale, the fighter had been more relaxed than Midnight had ever seen him, though he did have
occasional bouts of worry that the curse had not been lifted for good. Although she was happy, too, the mage found herself
wondering if Kelemvor would be happier going back to the adventuring life, perhaps even sailing with Bjorn and his crew. She
wondered, too, if the fighter desired to follow that course rather than put himself at risk in Tantras. Soon, the question started to
plague Midnight. Similar circumstances had driven a wedge between the lovers before, in Shadowdale, and she did not want history
