"Then the Realms are doomed," Deverell replied flatly.

"Unless I can get to the castle and recover the tablet," Midnight said, dipping her fingers into the fountain's glistening waters. Unlike Deverell, she caused expanding rings of ripples. The water both chilled and comforted her.

"Stop!" Deverell yelled, reaching for her arm. His fingers closed right through her bones, leaving the flesh cold and numb. "You're alive!"

"Yes," Midnight said reluctantly, unsure what to make of Deverell's reaction.

"Pull your hand out of the water!"

Midnight obeyed, wondering if she had offended the soul spectre by touching the fountain.

This calmed Deverell. "You're alive - and that means there is hope," he said, "but not if you let those waters drain your memory. Now what is this aboutBoneCastle?"

"That's where the other tablet is," Midnight explained. "I've got to get inside and recover it. Can you take me there?"

Deverell's form grew even whiter, if that was possible. "No," he muttered and turned away. "I'm not ready for the Fountain of Nepenthe. And even if I was, I've never been to the Realm of the Dead."

"This isn't it?" Midnight demanded.

"Not by an arrow's long flight," Deverell said, shaking his head. "We're in Kanaglym, according to the others."

"Kanaglym?"

"Built by the dwarves when the High Moor was fertile and warm."

Midnight could not imagine a time when the High Moor was fertile, much less warm. "But there are no dwarves here now," she observed, looking around the fountain.

"No," Deverell agreed. "They never inhabited it, at least not for long. The town well ran dry within a year of Kanaglym's completion. The dwarves sank a deeper well on the site of the old one. Eventually, they struck a limitless supply of water, the Waters of Forgetfulness.

"Within a month, they realized their mistake and renamed their beautiful well the Fountain of Nepenthe. A month after that, most of them abandoned Kanaglym completely. Those who were too stubborn to evacuate simply forgot where they lived and wandered off into the dark."

"Then this isn't Myrkul's realm," Midnight sighed. "Bhaal said there was an entrance to the Realm of the Dead below Dragonspear. I thought I had found it."

"That you have," Deverell responded, nodding toward the fountain.

"Under the water?"

"Aye. The dwarves dug this well so deep they struck Myrkul's domain," Deverell explained.

"It should be easy to reach, then," Midnight said, peering into the dark pool. "A simple water-breathing-"

"No," Deverell interrupted. "Not through the water. It drains your emotions and your memories."

Midnight was not worried. "I have other ways to pass." She was thinking specifically of teleporting, but a better idea presented itself to her. It was something called a worldwalk, which created an ultra-dimensional connection between planes.

Midnight had never heard of that spell before, but she had a good idea why she would be able to use it. Then, without giving the matter any conscious thought, she realized she knew not only how to perform the incantation, but how it was constructed, the theory that made it work, and that Elminster had developed the original spell.

The magic-user was astonished. There was no reason she should know all that. The information had simply come to her. She decided to see what else she could do. Midnight searched her memory for a complete listing of Elminster's spells. Her mind was immediately flooded with the incantations for, construction of, and theory behind every spell Elminster knew, which seemed an endless list of magic. Reeling from the plethora of information, she turned her thoughts away from the ancient mage's magic. Remembering an interesting spell she had once witnessed, in which a mage interposed a disembodied magical hand between himself and an attacker, Midnight explored her mind for information about that spell. Again, she immediately discovered that she knew everything about it, from how to perform the incantation to the fact that a wizard named Bigby had invented it several centuries ago.

Somehow, Midnight realized, she had acquired an encyclopedic knowledge of magic, almost as though she had access to a mystical book containing every spell ever invented. There was no doubt that this new ability was related to Mystra's power, but the magic-user did not understand why it had come to her at this particular moment. Perhaps it was because she was so close to an exit from the Realms. Or perhaps it was simply another development in her expanding relationship to the planet's magical weave. Whatever the reason, Midnight could not help but feel encouraged. She would certainly need every advantage available if she was to recover the Tablet of Fate fromBoneCastle.

Contemplating the task of recovering the tablet brought Midnight 's thoughts back to Deverell and his interest in helping her. Turning to the lord commander, she asked, "You're already dead, so what do you care what happens to the Realms?"

"A man's honor does not die with his body," Deverell replied. "As a Harper, I swore to uphold the good and combat evil wherever I found it. That vow will bind me until..." He nodded toward the fountain.

"I hope that's a long time," Midnight responded.

Deverell did not reply, for he knew that he didn't have the willpower to resist the fountain much longer. "You look tired. Perhaps you should rest before you go," he said. "I'll watch over you."

"I think I will," Midnight replied. She did not know how long it had been since she had slept, but the mage suspected that there would be little opportunity for rest in the Realm of the Dead.

They went to one corner of the courtyard and Midnight lay down. It took her a long time to fall asleep, and then her rest was filled with dreams and bad omens. Still, she slept as long as possible and when she woke, her body - if not her mind - felt ready to continue her journey.

As she stood and stretched, Midnight noticed that a crowd of several thousand soul spectres had gathered in the courtyard.

"I'm sorry," Deverell said. "When you fell asleep, word of a live woman's presence spread quickly. They've come to look at you, but mean no harm."

Looking at the spectres' envious faces, Midnight felt sad for them. "It's all right," she said. "How long did I sleep?"

Deverell shrugged. "I'm sorry, but I no longer have a sense of time."

Midnight started forward, then a thought occurred to her and she turned to Deverell. "If somebody died atDragon-spearCastle, would his soul come to Kanaglvm?"

Deverell nodded. "Of course. The Fountain of Nepenthe is the closest access to the Realm of the Dead from the ruins."

Midnight turned and addressed the crowd. "Kelemvor, are you here?" she cried. The crowd of soul spectres shifted uneasily and looked from one to another, but nobody came forward. Midnight breathed a sigh of relief.

The magic-user addressed the crowd again, this time expecting a response. "Adon, how about you? Come here so we can talk." Midnight was not sure how she would feel about speaking to a dead friend, but she had to try. "Adon, it's Midnight !"

Adon still did not show himself.

Five minutes later, Deverell said, "Perhaps he is scared, or could not resist the fountain for long."

Midnight shook her head. "That's not like Adon. He isn't one to give up."

Deverell searched the crowd. "Well, he's not coming forward, I don't think you'll gain anything by waiting for him."

Midnight reluctantly nodded. "Perhaps it's for the best. It would only cause us both pain."

"Then, if you're ready," Deverell said, extending a glowing hand toward the Fountain of Nepenthe.

Midnight gathered her courage and nodded. "As ready as I'll ever be."

Deverell led the way through the crowd of soul spectres. When he reached the Fountain of Nepenthe, he stopped and turned toward Midnight . "Until swords part, then."

Deverell's farewell heartened Midnight , for she recognized his words as a warrior's sign of respect. "May your noble heart save your soul," she replied.

The magic-user looked back to the throng of soul spectres, searching for Adon's face or some sign that he had come to see her off. The crowd remained a swarm of impassive and unfamiliar faces.

Midnight turned to the pool, trying to imagine what she would find on the white plain below. Finally, hoping that if her magic was ever going to be reliable, it would be reliable now, she summoned the incantation for Elminster's worldwalk and performed it. A shimmering disc of force appeared over the fountain. Midnight took a deep breath and stepped inside.

Cyric stood before a small inn, his horse's reins in his hand. The inn was located in the barren prairie betweenDragonspearCastleand Daggersford. The tavern and lodge were in a stone building standing in the shade of six maples. The stable sat fifty yards to the west, its corral built over a small stream that provided a constant supply of fresh water.

But the stream was now clogged by dead livestock, and the stable had burned to the ground. At the tavern, the sign of the Roosting Gryphon lay on the snow, half-burned and illegible. The shutters were smashed and splintered, and wisps of greasy smoke drifted out the open windows.

Is there anything for me? the thief's sword asked, the words forming inside his mind as if they were his own thoughts.

"I doubt it," Cyric answered. "But I'll look around." He and the sword - he thought of it as a "she" - had fallen into the habit of addressing each other as companions - even friends, if such a thing were possible.

Please - anything will do. I'm withering.

"I'll try," Cyric replied sincerely. "I'm hungry, too."

Neither of them had eaten since stealing the horse from the six hapless warriors who had "rescued" Cyric. The thief suspected the sword was in far worse shape than he was. For the first part of their fast, the sword had used its dark powers to keep him from feeling the effects of hunger. AfterDragonspearCastle, however, she had grown too weak to continue sustaining the thief.

That had been two days ago. Now, Cyric's belly ached with hunger and he was lightheaded and weak with exhaustion. Both he and the sword needed sustenance.

But there had been no chance to feed. After Midnight 's attempt to kill him, Cyric had entered the tower, intending to chase Midnight and Kelemvor wherever they went. But as he started down the stairs, the zombies had emerged with the tablet. The thief had assumed that Kelemvor and Midnight had died at the undead creatures' rotting hands.

He had turned to follow the zombies, determined to steal the tablet from them at the first opportunity. So far, the undead caravan drivers had not given him a chance. They had marched far into the snowy plain west of the road, where they would not be observed by passing caravans. Then they had turned north and started walking at a plodding, relentless pace, and had not stopped since.

Finally, because the caravan road ran northwest and the zombies had continued marching straight north, they had intersected the road near the inn. From a hiding place in the snow, Cyric had watched the undead raze the inn before resuming their relentless march. Although the thief was not sure why they had destroyed the tavern, he suspected it had been a mistake. By traveling so far off the road, the zombies were clearly taking pains to avoid detection. They had probably been instructed to kill anyone who saw them. So, when they ran across the inn, they had sacked it. Of course, destroying an establishment on a well-used road would hardly keep their presence secret, but zombies were not smart enough to think of that detail.

Anyway, now that the undead had disappeared over the horizon, Cyric thought it was safe to see if they had left anything behind. He tied his horse to a maple tree then entered the tavern. A dozen bodies littered the floor, scattered between tables and in the corners. It appeared the men had tried to fight the zombies off with fire, for expired torches lay strewn about the dirt floor. In several places, the torches had touched something flammable, causing fires that still smoldered here and there. It looked as though the flames had fallen just short of engulfing the inn.

"How do you feel about drinking blood from the dead?" Cyric asked his sword.

How do you feel about it? she replied. Does anybody look good to you?

"I'm not that hungry," Cyric answered, disgusted.

I am, the sword said flatly.

Cyric unsheathed his sword then went over to the corpse of a burly woman wearing an apron. In her hand was the handle of a butcher knife, but the blade had been snapped off. Her throat was bruised where a zombie had choked her. Cyric knelt at her side, preparing to slip his sword between the corpse's ribs, "She's dead," said a man's strained voice. "They all are!"

Cyric quickly rose and turned around. A balding, portly man stood in the doorway, a loaded crossbow in his hands.

"Don't shoot," Cyric said, slowly raising his hands. He assumed the man had seen enough to guess that his intentions were not honorable. The thief was merely looking for a way to stall until he could turn the advantage his way. "This isn't what you think."

The portly man frowned. "What's wrong with you? Why are you so afraid?" The man did not suspect Cyric of anything nefarious. He was in shock and had forgotten the effect that holding a lethal weapon would have on other people.

Gathering his wits, Cyric nodded at the crossbow. "I thought you might have mistaken me for-"

"For a zombie?" the man scoffed, looking at his crossbow and blushing. "I'm not that rattled."

The fat man stepped behind the bar and laid the weapon down. "Will you join me in a draft - compliments of the house? As you see, I'm out of business."

Cyric sheathed his sword and went to the bar. "I'd be happy to."

The portly man poured Cyric a mug of ale, then set it on the counter and poured himself one. "I'm called Farl," he said, offering his hand.

Cyric took the hand. "Well met. I'm Cyric," he replied, forcing as much warmth as he could into his voice. "How did you survive this..."

The fat man frowned. "Zombie attack," he muttered flatly. "I was in the basement when it happened. Just lucky, I guess."

The thief narrowed his eyes and stared at the innkeeper for a moment. "Yes," he said. "I guess you were lucky."

"Yes, well, here's to luck, Cyric!" Farl called, draining his mug.

After watching Farl empty his mug in a single gulp, Cyric tipped his own. Unfortunately, his empty stomach rebelled at the strong brew and he could not finish it. He sat the mug down and braced himself against the bar.

"Are you ill?" Farl asked absently. At the moment, he was still too stunned and shocked to feel any real concern for a stranger, but he was too observant a host not to take notice of his guest's condition.

"Nay," Cyric replied. "I haven't eaten in a week."

"That's too bad," Farl muttered automatically, pouring himself another mug. He downed it in one long gulp then belched quietly into his sleeve. Finally, it occurred to the fat man that Cyric might like something to eat.

"Wait here," the innkeeper said, shaking his head at his negligence. "I'll fetch you something from what remains of the kitchen." He poured another ale and left the room.

Farl is a juicy morsel, the sword urged.

"Aye, he is. But you'll have to wait your turn," Cyric said.

I can't wait any longer!

"I'll decide how long you can wait," the thief snapped.

I'm fading.

Cyric did not answer. He felt foolish for arguing with a sword. More importantly, he found her demanding tone offensive. But he also knew that the sword was being truthful. The color of her blade had faded to white.

Without me, you wouldn't have recovered from Bhaal's wounds, the sword insisted. Do you want me to starve?

"I won't let you starve," Cyric said patiently. "But I'll decide what I feed you."

Farl came shuffling back to the door, a large tray in his hand. "Who are you talking to?" he asked.

You owe me Farl! the sword hissed. The words were hot and urgent in Cyric's thoughts.

"I was talking to myself," the thief said. "It's one of the hazards of riding alone."

Farl sat the tray on the counter. He had assembled the best his kitchen had to offer: roast goose, stewed tomatoes, pickled beets, dried apples. "Have a feast," he said. "It'll just go to waste if you don't eat it."