raucous laughter could be heard a full block away from the tavern. To get a position at the bar, Midnight had to push between a pair
of off-duty guards who wore the gauntlet of Torm. Quillian stood waiting behind her.
Staring at the wiry, dark-skinned man behind the bar, the mage grinned. It had been a long time since the days when she had
traveled on her own and frequented noisy, smelly inns like this one. And though she could remember all the points of "etiquette" that
one used to be accepted in the company of crude, ill-mannered louts, Midnight felt strange about using it. She wanted to be able to
ask her questions, receive the proper answers, and be on her way. That thought would have shocked her three months ago, when
she still considered herself a "wild" adventuress.
As Midnight pondered that thought, the innkeeper placed his elbow on the bar and leaned in close to her. His foul breath and
bloodshot eyes shocked her out of her musings. "Would it kill you to actually order something?" the man grumbled.
"That depends on what poisons you're trying to pass off as fine ales," Midnight remarked without flinching.
The man tilted his head slightly. "Afraid I'll get you so drunk that you'll fall prey to my charms?"
Though she quickly found that she hadn't lost any of her wit, Midnight soon tired of the little game. She would have ended it and
simply asked for some information, but the mage knew that she wouldn't learn a thing if she didn't play along for a while, at least.
"Under those circumstances, I'd have to be dead, not drunk."
"Or dead drunk!" one of the two guards flanking Midnight said with a slurred voice then broke into a fit of uncontrollable
snickering. It look him a moment to realize no one else was laughing.
Midnight let a slight laugh escape her as she said, "Give me a double of whatever he's having. Then maybe you can tell me
something."
"I can tell you plenty," the innkeeper grumbled as he took a large red bottle out from behind the bar. Both fighters mumbled in
agreement.
"I'm sure you can," Midnight sighed. "But what I'm interested in is that burned-out building a few blocks away. I understand it
used to be a temple to Sune. I'm curious as to why clerics of Sune would leave a city as beautiful as Tantras. Beauty is what they
worship, after all."
The innkeeper laughed as he held the bottle close to his chest. "I remember that lot. They used to come in here with their fancy
clothes and their fancy ways, talking like a bunch of damn poets all the time. I only let them stay 'cause they had money."
"It sounds like they had it pretty good," Midnight noted, wiping her hand across the greasy bar. "But I still don't understand why
they left the city."
The innkeeper snorted. "I suppose it's hard to compete with a temple that's got its own resident god. Once Torm showed up,
their attendance fell off and those worshipers who were still foolish enough to worship -"
Suddenly the pair of guards stood up and kicked their stools to the floor. All sound and activity in the inn stopped as the guards
stood, glaring at the innkeeper. The guard to Midnight's right, who was wobbling from too much to drink, placed his hand on the hilt of
his sword.
Midnight looked at the innkeeper and saw a cold, almost frightened expression cross his face. He took the bottle of liquor and
poured its contents onto the floor. "It seems that bottle's empty," the innkeeper said when he was finished. "Is there anything else that
interests you?"
"Only a well-cooked meal for my nephew and me," Midnight told the man.
The black-haired boy took that as a cue. "Quillian Dencery," the young man said winningly as he grabbed one of the guard's
hands and shook it vigorously.
"Dencery," the man muttered absently. "I think I met your father once. Good man. Fine soldier. This his sister?"
"My aunt on my mother's side," Quillian said as he tapped his head and raised an eyebrow. "A scholar. You know the type."
The guard looked at Midnight, laughed, and turned away. Activity and sound resumed at the inn, and the mage and her guide
were shown to a table. As they ordered their meal, Midnight kept a close watch on the guards, but neither of the men even glanced in
her direction.
After they ate, they left the inn and Quillian took Midnight to a small, featureless, and deserted building, not far from the tavern.
"The worshipers of Ilmater, God of Endurance used to meet here," the boy told the mage. "The city levied taxes on the church that the
priests couldn't dream of paying. When they defaulted, the city guards put them in the poorhouse. Some even live in the House of
Meager Living."
Midnight pictured the derelict who had attacked her with a spike in the poorhouse and shuddered. "What kind of taxes?" the
mage asked quietly.
Quillian shrugged. "Once word got out that Torm was in the city, Tormites from all over Faerun flocked here, putting a ton of
gold in the coffers of the church. Of course, the government took its share, too. After a while, the city told the worshipers of Ilmater to
match the taxes paid by the Tormites or get out. You can guess what happened."
"How very odd," the mage noted as she turned to her guide. "In some places, the churches are exempt from taxation. Here,
they're driven away by it." Midnight paused for a moment then recollected her thoughts. "How far are we from Mystra's shrine?" she
asked at last.
"Not far at all," Quillian told her brightly. "It's down in the southern section of the city, near the garrisons."
After a long walk, Quillian led the mage up a low ridge to a small footpath that had nearly been worn away from neglect. The
path, in turn, took the travelers right to the Shrine of Mystra.
The shrine was a simple stone arch, surrounded by a rough stone wall a few feet high, with entrances at regular intervals
around its circumference. Midnight ordered Quillian to remain behind as she walked around the circle of stones, viewing the shrine
from every angle. Then she passed into the circle and stood before the small, white statue of the Lady of Mysteries that rested under
the center of the arch. Though she wanted to, Midnight found that she could not bring herself to kneel down and pray before testing
the shrine with the sphere of detection. She ran from the circle of stones then stopped.
"You're not a child anymore," she whispered to herself, then took out the sphere and approached the shrine again. As she got
close, the sphere vibrated very slightly.
A residue of spells that might have been cast years ago, Midnight thought. The raven-haired mage turned away from the shrine.
A large bell tower in the distance caught her eye. "What's that?" she said to her guide, pointing to the tower.
"A place where children used to play," the boy told her, stifling a yawn. "Legend has it that the bell was made by the great mage,
Aylen Attricus. He was one of the founders of Tantras. They say he was a thousand years old when he passed away, a century ago."
The boy picked up a small rock and rolled it down the worn path.
"He forged the bell himself, and built the tower, stone by stone, with his own two hands," Quillian continued. "Then he used his
magic to weave a spell preventing any mortal from ringing the bell. He inscribed some type of prophecy on the bell, but even the city's
scholars can't decipher the code he used." The black-haired boy shrugged and stifled another yawn. "All I know is that the bell has
been there for hundreds of years. They say it rang once and somehow saved the city, but I don't believe it."
"Why not?" Midnight asked.
"Because the only people around who still believe that are wizards, and wizards never tell the truth," the boy laughed. The mage
frowned. "I want to see it," she said grimly.
A slight whistle escaped Quillian's lips as he tried to work out a plan. "It's in the Forbidden Area, where the army garrisons are
laid out. The soldiers usually won't let just anyone through." He paused and smiled. "But they know me because of my father. You
and I both have dark hair and deep skin. Maybe we can get in by playing aunt and nephew again."
"Then let's go," Midnight said.
"There's a problem," Quillian said flatly, his hand on Midnight's arm. "Morgan Lisemore, the commander who would normally
give us access, is away from the city until late tomorrow. If I ask anyone else, there'll be a lot of questions, most of which you won't
want to answer." As he finished speaking, the boy tried to stifle a third yawn, but failed.
Throwing her hands into the air, Midnight looked away from the young man. We're obviously not going to solve this now," she
sighed. "You'd better get some rest. And try to get us a horse, for tomorrow. We'll cover more ground that way."
As Quillian turned and started toward home, Midnight put her hand on his shoulder and said, "Thank you for your help, nephew.
Meet me at the Lazy Moon Inn before morningfeast."
"Aye, milady," the dark-haired boy said happily. "By the way, you'll want to buy a sleeping mask before you go to bed. If you're
not used to it, the constant daylight here can make it difficult to sleep."
It was more than an hour's walk to the inn. Quillian bade the mage goodbye again then left her. There were no messages from
Adon or Kelemvor in the room she shared with the fighter, so the mage tried to relax and sleep.
After nearly an hour of lying in bed, the sunshine causing her to think in the back of her mind that she should be get-ting up,
Midnight dressed and found the innkeeper. The obsequious, smiling man, Faress by name, located a sleeping mask for the mage
and parted with it for the price of a tankard of ale, a rather large sum for a piece of rough cloth with a string attached.
Before she went to sleep, Midnight tried to study her spellbook. When that endeavor failed, she sat down at a small desk in the
corner of the room and wrote messages for Kelemvor and Adon. She retired then, and after sleeping fitfully, was startled awake by a
pounding on her door.
"It's Quillian Dencery, milady," a voice on the other side of the door cried. "You've overslept."
"I'll be there in a moment," Midnight mumbled and dressed hurriedly. The mage and her guide soon resumed their journey, now
on horseback, and spent the day visiting deserted temples and places of clandestine worship. Through it all, the sphere of detection
never registered more than a slight tremor. At the end of the day, Midnight accompanied Quillian to the military outpost in the
southernmost district of the city. There they found Morgan Lisemore, a tall, sandy-haired man who was easily old enough to be the
guide's father.
"If it isn't Quillian Dencery," Morgan said ruefully, the listened to the boy's story. When Midnight's guide had finished his tale of
addled aunts and research trips, the soldier sighed. "You know I hate to deny you anything, lad. But there are rules to be followed."
The young man shook his head and pointed to Midnight.
"She may he called back home at any moment, Morgan. This could be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for her."
Morgan looked up at the sky and sighed again.
"Very well. Go on," Morgan grumbled then motioned for his guards to let Midnight and her guide pass.
Midnight said nothing as she rode with Quillian to the bell tower nearly a half-mile in the distance. They passed a number of
hastily erected barracks and were forced to detour twice to avoid groups of soldiers in the middle of training exercises. Soon,
however, the Tower of Aylen Attricus stood before them.
The tower was a gray stone obelisk. Within the monument lay a winding stairway that led to a bright, silver bell. The bell itself
stood exposed to the cool afternoon air through large windows on each side. Midnight felt an odd tingling sensation in her back as
she gazed at the tower and prepared to dismount. The tingling felt like a thousand fingers capped with razor-sharp nails lightly
tapping the mage's back. Midnight realized what was happening just as she got off the horse and her feet touched the ground.
"Look out!" Midnight yelled and threw the travel bag from her shoulder. Quillian leaped to the ground. The bag was glowing with
a bright amber light as it landed twenty feet from the entrance to the tower. For an instant the bag seemed to be on fire, and then the
sphere of detection exploded soundlessly. The tough canvas sack was shredded, and the stone doorway to the tower was seared
black from the noiseless explosion.
Midnight walked over to Quillian. The boy was sitting up, but he scampered away from the raven-haired mage as she extended
her hand.
"You didn't tell me you were one of them!" he cried and backed a little farther from Midnight.
"One of who?" Midnight asked irritably.
"You're a mage! Your stinking art could have gotten us both killed!" Quillian yelled and rose to his feet. "I knew I shouldn't have
trusted you!"
The mage turned away from the dark-haired boy and looked at the tower. I can afford to lose a guide, she thought, but not the
Tablet of Fate... and from the reaction of the sphere, it just might be nearby!
But the sphere was meant to explode when it came within range of any object of sufficient magical power, the mage recalled
bitterly. It might have exploded because of the damned bell. She moved toward the doorway and Quillian cried out, "We have to
leave! Someone might think you're trying to blow up the bell!"
"You leave," Midnight hissed without turning around. "I have to see what's inside the tower."
Entering the tower, Midnight was greeted by absolute silence. The sounds of the garrisons and the training exercises going on
nearby, even the noise of the wind from the Dragon Reach, suddenly vanished. The mage looked through the door and could see
