Waterdeep (18 page)

The company had decided not to risk entering. Instead, Kelemvor had pointed out a small, recently blazed trail leading up the south wall of the canyon. The companions had followed the trail, hoping that whoever had laid it knew his way through the Sunset Mountains. That had been one and half days ago, three and half days since Sneakabout’s death.

The trail had quickly started up a steep scarp of jumbled stones and rosy dirt, becoming the chain of zigzags upon which Kelemvor now struggled. Every step ended with his foot sinking into sand or shifting unsteadily on a loose stone. A dozen yards above, the slope ended in a saddle slung between two jagged peaks. Only blue sky showed beyond, but Kelemvor took no comfort from that fact. Too many times, he had crested a similar saddle only to find another looming in the distance.

An icy wind gusted over the ridge and stung his face. The warrior paused for a rest. Just breathing took effort, and the effort made his head hurt even more. Two hundred steps behind Kelemvor, Adon was slowly working his way up the trail. A thousand steps beyond him Midnight rested where the trail switched back on itself. To avoid kicking rocks down on one another, Kelemvor had recommended the climbers keep some distance between them. Midnight was taking the suggestion to an extreme.

Below Midnight and to the left, Kelemvor could still see the black curtain that had forced them off the pass. To the right, the main canyon snaked its way back to the Tun Plain. The distance was less than thirty miles in a straight line, but more than twice that far following the trails that wormed along the valley floor. A carpet of pine trees stretched from the plain to the base of the slope, but ended there and came no higher.

Kelemvor had no doubt that Cyric and his Zhentilar were somewhere down there, following at their best pace. What would have surprised the warrior, had he been able to see them, were the forty halflings near the entrance of the canyon. Sixty miles outside of Darkhold, one of their scouts had stumbled across Cyric’s trail, and the men from Black Oaks had turned north in pursuit. They had just found Sneakabout’s body, and, puzzled as they were by what had befallen him, were now certain they were on the right trail.

Oblivious to the halflings, Kelemvor turned his gaze to the terrain upon which he stood. Nearby, tiny white flowers grew out of lumps of fine grass resembling bread mold. Here and there, pale green lichens clung to the largest of the rustred rocks. No other plants could endure the rigorous climate, and the barren environment made the fighter feel disheartened and isolated.

“Come on, Adon,” Kelemvor called, hoping that offering encouragement would make him feel better, too. “We’re bound to reach the top sooner or later.”

Later,” came Adon’s strained reply.

Kelemvor shivered and resumed climbing. He had broken into a sweat during the hard climb, and the wind chilled him. The warrior thought of putting on the winter clothes Deverell’s quartermaster had provided, but decided against it. More clothes would only make him sweat more.

The mountainside was a cold and solitary place, and the warrior could not help but regret that he was risking his life there. When the trio had begun their journey to Waterdeep, the mission had seemed compelling enough. Now, with Sneakabout gone and the trouble between him and Midnight, Kelemvor felt like a mercenary again.

His anger with Midnight colored his mood, and he knew it. Twice, Cyric had been in his grasp, and twice the mage had freed the thief. The fighter couldn’t understand why she was so blind to Cyric’s treachery.

Kelemvor’s love for Midnight only made matters worse. When she had saved the thief, the warrior had felt she was betraying him. He knew that there was nothing between Cyric and Midnight to cause his jealousy, but that knowledge provided little comfort.

The fighter had tried to explain away his fury a hundred times. Midnight had not seen Cyric slipping from one camp to another as a spy during Arabel’s Knightsbridge Affair, and did not know how treacherous he could be. The naive magic-user truly believed the thief was possessed of a noble character and would help them.

“This had better be the top,” Adon called. “I’ve lost my stomach for climbing.”

“Perhaps you’d rather try the curtain,” Kelemvor returned, waving his hand at the black screen that still blocked the valley.

Adon paused and looked down, as if contemplating the warrior’s suggestion. Finally, he said, “Don’t tempt me.”

Kelemvor chuckled then took one more step. His foot found solid purchase. A steady, stiff wind pushed at his chest with force enough to make standing difficult. The warrior looked up and found himself on top of the little ridge. Ahead, the mountain range dropped steadily away. He had reached the top.

The trail followed the other side of the saddle down to a sharp ridge. This ridge ran straight ahead for about fifteen miles, like the spine of some huge book, until it joined a small chain of needle-tipped peaks. At the top of the ridge, the trail split. The best-used trail ran to the left, leading down into a basin of lush green grass. It eventually disappeared into a heavily forested canyon that twisted in a westerly direction into a distant grassland.

The other trail descended the right wall of the spiny ridge, eventually touching the shore of a small mountain lake. From there, the path ran along the edge of the violet blue water to an outlet, then followed a river into a steep walled gorge to the northwest.

After taking in the view, Kelemvor turned and waved to Adon. The warrior’s load no longer seemed heavy, and his dreary mood faded as though he were drinking Lord Deverell’s fine ale again.

“This is the top!” he yelled.

Adon looked up and shrugged, then held his hand to his ear. Kelemvor couldn’t raise his voice above the wind, so he made an arcing motion, pointed down the other side of the pass then raised his arms in a sign of triumph.

Adon immediately perked up then began tugging his pony’s reins in an effort to speed up his ascent. Kelemvor would have signaled to Midnight too, but she had fallen so far behind he feared he would discourage her.

A few minutes later, Adon reached the summit, scrambling on his hands and knees.

“Are we finally at the top?” the cleric gasped. He was so winded he could not lift his head to look.

“See for yourself,” Kelemvor replied.

After catching his breath, Adon stood and peered down on the lake. The view lifted his spirits, as it had Kelemvor’s. “We’re there! The journey’s downhill from here!”

Looking back to Midnight, Kelemvor asked, “How’s she doing?”

Adon turned, suddenly feeling morose. “Sneakabout’s death still grieves her.”

Kelemvor gave his pony’s reins to Adon then started back down the trail. The cleric quickly placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. “No.”

“But she’s tired!” Kelemvor objected, turning to face the cleric. “And I’m strong enough to carry her.”

“She doesn’t want help,” Adon replied. Two hours ago, he had offered to take her pony’s reins. The magic-user had threatened to change him into a crow.

Kelemvor glanced back at Midnight’s slow-moving form. “It’s time we spoke.”

“I agree!” Adon exclaimed, relieved that the warrior had finally overcome his stubbornness. “But let her finish the climb alone. Now isn’t the time to imply she can’t carry her weight.”

Kelemvor was not inclined to agree. “Five minutes ago, I’d have given my sword to somebody who’d carry me up the pass. I don’t think she’d take it wrong.”

The cleric shook his head. “Trust me. Climbing gives you time to think. Despite the cramps in your legs, the pounding in your ears, and the fog in your head, climbing promotes thought.”

The fighter frowned. In him, it promoted nothing but a pounding headache. “It does?”

“Yes,” Adon insisted. He released the warrior’s shoulder. “While I was struggling up the trail, a few things occurred to me. Midnight saved Cyric then Cyric killed Sneakabout. If you were her, wouldn’t you feel responsible?”

“Of course I would,” Kelemvor responded quickly. “And I told her-” He stopped in midsentence, recalling the bitter argument that had followed Sneakabout’s death.

“Exactly!” Adon said, nodding. “What did she say?”

“It didn’t make any sense,” Kelemvor replied defensively. “She said it was our fault that Sneakabout had died. She said Cyric came to talk and we attacked him.” The warrior frowned. “You’re not saying she was right?”

Adon grew serious. “We did strike first.”

“No,” Kelemvor objected, holding up a hand as if to ward off an attack. “I don’t kill lightly, not even before…” He let the sentence trail off.

“Before Bane lifted your curse?” Adon finished for him. “You’re worried that being free of the curse might not mean you’re less of an animal.”

Kelemvor looked away.

“We all have self-doubts,” Adon replied, sensing that now was a good time to open up to the fighter. “With me, it’s wondering if I was right to turn away from Sune.”

“A man has to follow his heart,” the warrior said, grasping the cleric’s shoulder warmly. “You could have done nothing else.” Kelemvor’s mind returned to what Midnight had said about attacking their former ally. “Could we be wrong about Cyric?”

Adon shrugged. “Midnight certainly thought so.”

Kelemvor groaned.

The cleric quickly added, “But I’m convinced we’re right. Cyric’s men were surrounding our camp, so I doubt he came to talk. It isn’t wrong to strike first if your target means you harm.”

Adon paused, letting his reassurances take their effect. Finally, he proceeded to the main point. “But that doesn’t matter. What matters is how you and I reacted to Midnight.”

“What do you mean?” Kelemvor asked, glancing at the mage again. She was still plodding up the trail, making slow but steady progress.

“When I suggested we were wrong to attack, you felt defensive, didn’t you?”

Kelemvor nodded.

“How do you think Midnight feels? Since Sneakabout died, you’ve hardly spoken to her. I’ve done nothing but lecture her about Cyric. Don’t you think she feels worse than we do?”

“Probably,” Kelemvor muttered, looking at the ground. Midnight always seemed so composed that it had never occurred to him she might be suffering the same sort of inner turmoil he was.

Studying the warrior’s bowed head, Adon continued. “With us blaming Sneakabout’s death on her, it seems likely that - no matter how she protests otherwise - Midnight blames herself, too.”

“All right,” Kelemvor said, turning toward the west side of the ridge, away from both Adon and Midnight. “I see your point. She feels bad enough without us rubbing it in.”

Kelemvor was ashamed of his behavior since Eveningstar. Without facing Adon, he said, “Life was much simpler when the curse prevented me from thinking about anybody else. At least I had an excuse for being selfish.” The warrior shook his head angrily. “I haven’t changed at all! I’m still cursed.”

“Sure,” Adon replied. “But no more or less than any other man.”

Kelemvor turned back toward Midnight. “All the more reason to carry her. I can apologize for my harsh words.”

Adon shook his head, wondering if the fighter had understood anything that had been said. “Not yet. Midnight already feels like a burden, and offering to carry her will only convince her she is. Sit down and wait until she gets here herself.”

Though clouds were gathering in all directions, Kelemvor did as the cleric asked. The saddle was no place to be during a storm, but Adon’s words seemed wise. Besides, even if a storm broke, descending the west side of the ridge would take only a fraction of the time it had taken the heroes to ascend the east side.

Adon went to his pony and rummaged through the supplies from High Horn. A minute later, the cleric pulled out a parchment map and, retaining a secure grip on it because of the wind, carefully studied it.

Kelemvor, on the other hand, contemplated the changes in Adon. The cleric’s self-confidence had returned, but was tempered with a compassion that had been lacking before Tantras. Where the transformation had come from, the fighter could not imagine. But he was glad for the newfound wisdom - even if Adon still required a thousand words to convey what could be said in ten.

“You surprise me, Adon,” Kelemvor said at last, watching his friend study the map with diligence. “I didn’t think you so cunning in the ways of the heart.”

Adon looked up. “I’m as surprised as you.”

“Perhaps Sune is closer than you think,” the green-eyed fighter suggested, remembering what the cleric had said regarding misgivings about turning away from her.

Adon smiled sadly, thinking of how distant he felt from his old deity. “I doubt it.” He grew reflective for a moment then pulled himself out of his reverie. “But thanks anyway.”

Embarrassed by the unaccustomed sentimentality of the moment, Kelemvor looked away and watched Midnight struggling up the trail. She moved slowly, resting with each step, keeping her eyes focused on the ground ahead of her. The warrior found himself admiring her grace and how it mirrored her inner strength.

A wave of concern for her washed over him. “Will Midnight survive all this?” Kelemvor asked.

“She will,” Adon replied. He didn’t even look away from the map. “She’s as fit as you or I.”

Kelemvor continued studying the magic-user. “That’s not what I mean. We’re just two soldiers who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. But there’s more to it for her.” The warrior was remembering the amulet she had carried for Mystra. “This involves her. Could her magic - I don’t know how to put it - but could it remake her somehow?”

Adon grew reflective and lowered the map. “I don’t know magic,” he said at last. “And it wouldn’t help if I did. There isn’t any question that Midnight’s power is increasing. What that means is anybody’s guess, but I suspect it will change her.

As if sensing she was the subject of conversation. Midnight looked up. Her eyes met Kelemvor’s and the warrior felt a jolt of euphoria. “I couldn’t bear to lose her. I’ve just found her again,” he said.

“Be careful, my friend,” Adon replied. “Midnight alone will determine whether she is found.”

Abruptly, the wind died. Gray clouds hung over the mountains in all directions. Midnight was only five hundred steps from the top now, and still Kelemvor resisted the temptation to go to her. If it rained, it rained. He was determined not to make her unhappy by helping her.