Shadowdale (17 page)

The other man was Marek, and when Cyric examined the face of his mentor, he did not find the aging, hard-lined visage he had looked upon just the other night, when Marek ambushed him at the inn. This Marek was younger, and the tight, curly hair upon his head was jet-black, not the salt-and-pepper-gray it should have been. His skin had only just begun to show a hint of the wrinkles that would one day develop. His piercing blue eyes had not surrendered any of their earlier fires, and the man’s large frame no longer displayed any trace of flabbiness. This was the man Cyric had studied under, had robbed and committed now unthinkable acts for without hesitation. Cyric had been an orphan, and in many ways, Marek was the only father he ever knew.

“Come with us,” Marek said, and Cyric obeyed, allowing himself to be led through a set of doorways into the kitchen of an inn that Cyric did not recognize. Cyric had always allowed himself to be led, it seemed, and when they passed into the lighted hallway, Cyric noticed his own reflection in a nearby mirror. More than ten years had been taken from his face — the crow’s feet were gone from around his eyes; his skin seemed more resilient, less hardened by the passage of time and the hardships he had endured.

“You’re probably wondering why we’re here,” Marek said to the grotesquely fat cook who stood near a curtain at the other end of the kitchen.

“No, not al all,” the fat man said, a broad smile holding up his blubbery cheeks. He pointed to the curtain and said, “She’s right in here.”

Marek grabbed Cyric by the arm and led him to the curtain. “Look,” Marek said and drew open the curtains very slightly. “There’s our next victim, and your ride to freedom, Cyric.”

Cyric looked out. Only a few tables in the taproom were visible from his vantage, and only one of those was occupied. A handsome middle-aged woman, dressed in fine silks and carrying a purse filled to overflowing sat at the table, sipping a bowl of soup that had just been brought to her by an attractive serving girl. She stopped the girl.

“This soup is not piping hot!” the woman shrieked in a voice that made Cyric’s teeth hurt. “I asked that my soup be piping hot, not merely warm!”

“But ma’am —”

The woman grasped the serving girl’s hand. “See for yourself!” the woman cried, and thrust the girl’s hand into the steaming bowl of soup. The girl bit back a scream, and managed to wrench her hand free without spilling the contents of the bowl upon the middle-aged woman. The flesh of the girl’s hand was bright red. The soup had been scalding.

“If you cannot meet my needs, I will have to take my business elsewhere!” the woman said. She rolled her eyes. “I do wish I knew what was keeping my nephew. He was supposed to meet me here.” She frowned and gestured at the soup. “Now take this away and bring me what I asked for!”

The serving girl took the bowl, bowed slightly, and turned to walk back to the kitchen, causing Cyric to draw back before he was seen.

“Relax,” Marek said from behind Cyric, and the curtains parted, admitting the girl. She looked at Marek and shoved her serving tray into Cyric’s waiting hands. She pressed against Marek and kissed him full on the lips. Then she pulled back, grabbed a damp cloth from the sink, and wrapped it around her hand.

“I’d like not to wait for my cut this time,” she said.

Quicksal eased his blade from its sheath then slammed it back again, making a sharp scrape that caused the serving girl to smile. “I promise our benefactor won’t have to wait for hers.”

“I’ll second that,” Cyric said, surprising himself with the sentiment.

The serving girl winked at Marek. “You know where to find me this evening. We’ll celebrate.”

She took the serving tray back from Cyric and went to a boiling pot of soup in the kitchen and ladled out another serving. Then she dropped the wet cloth and headed back to the taproom with the steaming soup.

“Stay here,” Marek said, and followed the girl. Cyric parted the curtains and watched as Marek spoke to the woman. Cyric dropped the curtain when Quicksal tugged on his sleeve.

“Time to go,” Quicksal said, and moments later they were once again crouched in the shadows of the alley behind the inn. The doorway opened and Marek ushered the woman into the alley. She looked around, disoriented and confused.

“I don’t understand,” the old woman said. “You say my nephew has been beset in this alley, that he can’t be moved, and —”

Understanding lit in her eyes as Quicksal pushed away from the shadows.

“You’re not my auntie,” Quicksal said. “But we’ll take your money anyway.”

The woman started to scream but Quicksal pushed her against a wall and put his hand over her mouth. He drew his knife and placed it against her throat. “Quiet now. Auntie. I wouldn’t want to have to kill you right away. Besides, this is Zhentil Keep. If your screams do draw someone here, they’ll only want a share of your money.”

Marek grabbed the woman’s purse and rifled through it. Then he nodded with a pained expression.

“Alas, this is not enough,” Marek said, and motioned for Cyric to move forward. Quicksal backed away from the woman, but kept his blade extended toward her as he did.

“I have nothing else!” she cried. “Mercy!”

“I would respect your request,” Marek said sadly, lowering his head. “But I cannot deny the young ones their pleasure.”

Cyric drew his blade. Quicksal placed his hand on the boy’s chest and snickered. “You’ll never be able to kill her, Cyric. And then Marek will be stuck with you as an apprentice forever.” The blond thief moved toward the woman again. “You might as well let me kill her, Marek.”

“Stand away!” Cyric said, and Quicksal turned to face him.

There were tears in the woman’s eyes. “Help me,” she cried, her hands shaking.

“Ah, such a dilemma,” Marek said. “Who shall spill this innocent blood?”

Cyric turned sharply. “There is no innocence in this world!”

Marek raised an eyebrow. “But what crime has this woman committed?”

“She hurt the girl.”

Marek shrugged. “So? I’ve hurt her many times myself. She didn’t seem to be complaining.” Marek laughed. “I think Quicksal should kill the woman. After all, Cyric, you have never showed me that you’re ready to be independent, and the Thieves’ Guild might not approve.”

“You’re lying!” Cyric shouted. With each step Quicksal took toward the woman, Cyric saw his chance for independence slipping farther away.

“A moment,” Marek said, raising his hand to Quicksal, then turning to Cyric, “Does she deserve to die, just so you can have your freedom?”

“I know her. She is…” Cyric shook his head. “She is arrogance and vanity. Privilege and prejudice. Content to ignore the poor and the needy, ready to let us die before she would raise a hand to help. She is distant and cruel, except when her head is on the block. Then she cries for mercy, for forgiveness. I have seen her type before. She is all that I despise.”

“And she has no redeeming qualities? She is not capable of love or kindness? There is no chance she might change her ways?” Marek said.

“None at all,” Cyric said.

“Quite an argument,” Marek said. “But I am not swayed. Quicksal, kill her.”

The woman gasped and tried to run, but Quicksal was far too fast for her. She hadn’t taken two steps before the blond thief was upon her and her throat was slit. The woman collapsed into the alley. Quicksal smiled. “Perhaps next time, Cyric.”

Cyric looked into Quicksal’s eyes and felt as if he had delved into twin pools of madness. “I deserve my freedom,” Cyric growled and drew his knife.

“Then prove it to me,” Marek said. “Show me your worth and I will award you your independence. I will give you safe passage from the city if you want it, and I will make the Thieves’ Guild recognize you as a full member. Your life will be your own, to do with as you will.”

Cyric shuddered. “Everything I’ve dreamed,” he said absently.

“But only you can make the dream a reality,” Marek said. “Now be a good boy and kill Quicksal there.”

Cyric looked back to Quicksal and saw that the blond thief was now holding a sword that he did not have only seconds earlier. However, instead of readying to attack, Cyric’s rival stood in a defensive posture and looked very frightened.

“Put away your knife,” Quicksal said in a voice that was not his own. “Don’t you recognize me?”

Cyric held his ground. “Only too well. And don’t try to confuse me by disguising your voice. I know all your tricks.”

Quicksal shook his head. “This isn’t real!” Cyric knew he should have recognized the voice Quicksal was using but he couldn’t concentrate on it. The blond thief took a step backward. “It’s an illusion, Cyric. I don’t know what you think you see in front of you, but it’s me, Kelemvor.”

Cyric struggled to place the name or the voice, but it was difficult to think.

“You’ve got to fight,” Quicksal said.

“He’s right, Cyric,” Marek said softly. “You have to fight this.” But Marek’s voice was suddenly different, too. He sounded like a woman.

Cyric didn’t move. “Something is wrong here, Marek. I don’t know what kind of games you’re playing with me, but I really don’t care. I expect you to hold to your word.” With that, Cyric lunged at Quicksal.

Quicksal sidestepped Cyric’s first thrust, and surprised Cyric by retreating a few steps and assuming a defensive posture. This isn’t Quicksal’s style at all, Cyric thought.

“Stop this at once,” Quicksal said, parrying Cyric’s next thrust. Cyric moved with the force of the parry and crashed his elbow into Quicksal’s face. At the same time, he tossed his blade from one hand to the other and grabbed Quicksal’s wrist. Then Cyric rammed the blond thief’s hand against the wall and forced him to drop his sword.

“With your death, I gain a life,” Cyric cried and raised his knife to kill the blond thief.

“No, Cyric, you’re killing a friend!” Marek screamed, and Cyric recognized the voice as Midnight’s just before his dagger struck his opponent’s shoulder. His victim wasn’t Quicksal: it was Kelemvor.

As best he could, Cyric pulled back on his knife thrust. But it was too late. The dagger sunk into Kelemvor’s shoulder.

Kelemvor pushed him away, and Cyric crashed to the floor, his dagger still stuck in his victim’s shoulder. The fighter picked up his sword and started toward the thief. “Forgive me,” Cyric whispered as the warrior raised his sword to strike.

“Kel, don’t!” Midnight shouted. “He can see it’s us!”

The fighter stood still, then dropped his sword. Cyric backed away and saw Midnight standing where Marek had stood only a second earlier. Then Kelemvor was beside her, blood leaking from his wounded shoulder. The fighter’s face had gone white.

The alley started to fade and disappear, but the body of the woman Quicksal had killed, the woman Cyric would have murdered if he’d been given the chance, still lay face down in the dirt. A pool of blood was still spreading out from beneath her. Cyric stared at the woman until she, too, faded from sight.

“What does he see?” Kelemvor whispered. “There’s nothing there.” Midnight shook her head.

“I’m sorry, Kel. I thought you were someone else,” Cyric said as he approached the fighter.

Kelemvor plucked the dagger from his shoulder, flinching at the incredible pain. He dropped the weapon at Cyric’s feet as Midnight helped him bind up his wounded shoulder.

“We have to find Adon,” Kelemvor said. “He’s the only one left.”

“I can guess what his temptation is,” Midnight said as she finished binding Kelemvor’s wound and the heroes raced for the stairs.

Adon had turned away from the bars that separated him from Midnight and walked a short way down the hall, just to see if there was some easy way for him to rejoin the mage on the other side of the barrier. Now he found himself staring up at an incredibly beautiful, star-filled sky.

And such a strange array of stars, too, Adon noted as he looked up at the night sky. They all appear to be moving.

Indeed the stars were in motion, rocketing across the sky at such speeds that many were only blurs of light. Adon closed his eyes, but the stars remained, playing their games even behind his closed lids.

Adon gazed at the stars for a long time. When next he looked around, he found himself laid out on a delicate bed of roses, and the fragrance that flooded his senses was sweet and gentle, although it caused his heart to beat faster and his head to grow numb. The pedals brushed against his fingers so lightly that he could not help but smile at the delicacy. Then it occurred to Adon. The stars weren’t moving at all; he was.

He opened his eyes and gazed over the edge of his bed of flowers only to find a dozen of the most beautiful beings he had ever seen. Their hair seemed to have been set aflame, and their bodies were specimens of utter physical perfection. Adon’s magnificent bed rested upon their willing shoulders.

The presence of these beings reassured Adon so much that he didn’t even flinch when a wall of flames sprang up around him. His vision blurred a bit, and all he surveyed seemed to take on an amber cast, but there was no heat as the flames leaped from the red to white roses, changing them to black orchids, and finally jumped to the cleric’s flesh. There was no pain, not even mild discomfort, when the fires engulfed him. There was nothing but the bright glow of love and well-being that coursed through his soul as he came to the final understanding of his own death that must have happened long before this moment.

Strain as he might, he could remember none of what happened after he was separated from Midnight in the corridors below Castle Kilgrave. He woke upon his funeral pyre, being carried to what could only be his eternal reward.

But how did I die? Adon wondered, and the shifting, beautiful voices of his bearers filled the crackling air around him.

“One never remembers,” they said. “The moment of pain is suffered by another, to spare you.”

Another?

“Others such as we have become. Our purpose is to alleviate suffering. We live your death that you might be reborn into the Kingdom of Sune.”

Shining crystal spires cut through the night, and Adon focused his attention on the temple before him. As it stretched across the horizon, the temple’s walls were graced with stunningly beautiful crystalline designs, though no uniform pattern made the infinite palace boring or repetitious. It was as if each of Sune’s followers who found rest in this place had contributed their own concepts of the boundaries and appearances that eternity should reveal. An amalgam of expectations resulted, yet some guiding hand had taken all the disparate images and incorporated them into an ordered whole, disappointing no one and creating a place of beauty that defied Adon’s wildest dreams to surpass.