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.

Adon passed the map to Kelemvor, oblivious to the change in weather. "Look at this," he said. "The shortest way to Hill's Edge is through the western canyon." The cleric pointed at the canyon on the map. "But if we build a small boat, it might be faster to float down the River Reaching." He indicated the river leaving the small lake. "What do you think?"

Kelemvor didn't bother with the map. Looking at the river, he said, "After the Ashaba, I thought you'd have had your fill of boats."

Adon grimaced at the memory of the difficult journey from Shadowdale toBlackfeatherBridge, but he continued undaunted. "This might save us a week."

Kelemvor simply shook his head. Adon might have learned something about people, but when it came to route-finding, the cleric still lacked the sense of a mule. "No raft we can build will stand up to the rough water in that canyon," the warrior said, pointing at the rugged valley below the lake. "Even if it didn't fall apart and drown us, we'd be killed going over some waterfall."

Adon studied the canyon. "Of course. I see what you mean."

Five minutes later, the sky had grown ominously dark. Midnight was only a dozen steps from the summit, and Kelemvor could barely wait until she reached it. Remembering how his own spirits had lifted when he stepped onto the saddle, the warrior was determined to take the opportunity to apologize. After that, the rest of the trip would go smoothly.

Midnight slowly plodded up those last feet and stepped onto the ridge. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that they had, at last, reached the top.

Kelemvor could not contain himself. "You're here," he said enthusiastically.

Midnight looked around. "I see that." Though she could not miss Kelemvor's cheery tone, she didn't share his delight.

The magic-user was still too angry, though she could no longer say why. Initially, Midnight had blamed Sneakabout's death on Kelemvor and Adon. After all, they had attacked Cyric without provocation, and everything else had followed. But she was beginning to fear their old friend might be playing her for a fool. She wished she had seen what had passed on the rope between Cyric and the halfling, whether Cyric had acted in self-defense or had killed Sneakabout in cold blood.

A driving rain of black drops began to fall. The water was so cold it should have been ice, and where it touched the companion's skin, it left itching red circles.

From the surrounding peaks echoed a quiet wail that would not have been out of place had there been a breeze. But the wind was calm and the air still. In another time or place, they would have puzzled over the black rain and the unnatural howl, but at the moment it merely seemed another irritation.

Shrugging off the rain, Kelemvor exclaimed, "From here, it's all downhill!"

"Then I suggest we continue downhill before this rain burns us to death." Midnight yanked her pony's reins and started down the trail.

The magic-user's curtness deflated the spirits of both Kelemvor and Adon. As they scrambled to follow, Kelemvor whispered, "How much longer must we wait before she'll let us forgive her?"

"I wouldn't hold my breath," Adon responded.

It had taken them nearly two days to climb the east side of the saddle, but it took only a quarter that long to descend the west side. Cold and itching from the black rain, the three companions reached the ridge separating the lake and the forested canyon just before dusk. Kelemvor noticed a small cliff in the western basin. In a niche at its bottom, they found beds of mossy grass and a shelter from the unnatural weather. After assigning watches and gulping down a drab meal, the company settled in for a dreary night of sleep.

The first two watches passed without incident, save that it stopped raining during the second. Still, Midnight , who had the third watch, slept little and knew it was useless to try. She attempted to occupy her mind by puzzling out the reason her magic had failed against Cyric's men. The magic-user could not understand why smoke tendrils instead of a wall of fire had appeared. She had executed the gestures and words exactly as they had come to her.

Any number of things could account for the unexpected results. Perhaps the wrong words and gestures had appeared in her mind. Or dropping the phosphorous beforehand could have altered the magic's form. But it was just as likely the magic had simply gone awry, as magic had done so often since the night of the Arrival.

Midnight could conclude only one thing from the whole incident, her relationship to the weave was definitely different than that of a normal magic-user. Otherwise, the incantation, whether correct or incorrect, would never have come to her in the first place.

But through most of the night, Midnight could not keep her thoughts from returning to the battle on top of the cliff. Over and over, she heard Kelemvor asking her to keep Cyric's men at bay so he could kill the thief, and heard herself flatly refusing. Then the image returned of Sneakabout sliding down the rope after Cyric, and time after time she saw his silhouette plunging to the ground. Then she would hear Kelemvor blaming her for the halfling's death.

By the time her watch came, Midnight had decided to leave the company. Back in Eveningstar, Cyric had said she was endangering her friends' lives. The thief had been trying to persuade her to join him instead of staying with Kelemvor and Adon. But Sneakabout's death had convinced her that Cyric was right. As long as she remained with the fighter and the cleric, they were in danger - from Cyric, the Zhentilar, and Bhaal.

An hour before dawn, Midnight judged it would be safe to leave her companions unguarded. The night had passed without incident, and the two of them were hidden beneath the cliff. The mage saddled all the ponies, then slipped the tablet from its resting place next to Adon and tied it on to her own mount's saddle.

Finally, she bade a silent farewell to her friends and led all three ponies away. She would leave Kelemvor's and Adon's mounts somewhere down the trail, after she had ridden far enough to insure they would find it difficult to catch her.

VII.

DAOGEPTOAS.

Midnight kneeled behind the twisted trunk of a shagbark tree. A small expanse of grassland lay at her back. Beyond the prairie stood the rosy crags of the Sunset Mountains, where she had abandoned Kelemvor and Adon just four days ago. The morning was a dreary and gray one, but behind the peaks, the sun had bleached the clouds to bright white.

The scrawny shagbark stood atop a bluff overlooking the River Reaching. A narrow flood plain separated the river's eastern shore from the embankment. Both the plain and the slope were covered with tall scraggly brush. A well-used trail led down the bluff to an inn and livery stable that sat in a small clearing at the river's edge.

Built from river rock and mortar, the inn was a one-story structure. The stable had been constructed with twisted planks hewn from gnarled shagbark trees. Currently, over thirty ponies and horses stood crowded within its confines. One end of the corral protruded a short distance into the River Reaching so that the animals had a constant supply of water.

Outside the inn, two Zhentilar sentries lay dead with short spears protruding from their chests. Another sentry had fallen in the doorway. Thirty halflings lay scattered throughout the clearing, black arrows in their breasts. A handful of the small warriors had reached the inn and hacked eight window shutters off their hinges. Beneath three sills, bloodstains darkened the stone walls, and halfling bodies lay beneath two more windows.