Adon smiled fearlessly, despite the presence of the four armed guards who surrounded him and led him through the great citadel of Arabel. They passed all the sights that Adon had familiarized himself with during his last visit to the citadel — the opulent halls filled with activity, the gaily colored glass windows through which precious light had filtered, warming his face. The splendor of the citadel was a shocking contrast to the squalor Adon had witnessed in the streets. The cleric ran his hand over his face, as if fearful that the filth he was thinking about had somehow rubbed off, marring his pristine appearance.
Sune Firehair, the goddess he had been a faithful cleric to for most of his young life, had blessed him with what he considered the smoothest, most fair skin of any in the Realms. He had been accused of vanity from time to time, and he shrugged off such accusations. Those who did not worship Sune could not be expected to understand that, although he gave thanks regularly, he was in charge of the care and keeping of the precious gifts the goddess had granted him. He had fought to preserve her good name and reputation, and never suffered so much as a scratch to mar his features. And in this he knew he was blessed.
Now that the gods had come to the Realms, Adon felt it was merely a matter of time before he crossed paths with Sune. Had he learned her whereabouts, he would have already gone off in search of her. As it was, Arabel, with its constant flow of merchants all heavily equipped with wagging tongues and unquenchable thirsts, was the best place to wait until more information came his way.
Of course, in the Temple of Sune, there had been some dissension. Two clerics had left the temple under questionable circumstances. Others were distraught over what they claimed was the abandonment of Sune — a fact heralded by the silence of the goddess to their prayers. Of course, since the time of Arrival, only the clerics of Tymora had successfully achieved clerical magic, and that was attributed to the proximity of their god-made-flesh. And it seemed that if a cleric was more than a mile from his god, his spells did not function.
Naturally, healing potions or magical objects that copied the effects of healing magic were now sold at a premium, though they, too, were untrustworthy. Local alchemists were forced to hire private guards to protect their wares and their person.
Adon had adjusted better than most to the chaos in the Realms. He knew that all things concerning the gods occurred for a reason. A true follower should have the patience and good sense to wait for enlightenment, rather than allow his imagination to run rampant. Adon's faith was unwavering, and for that he had been rewarded. The fact that the fair Myrmeen Lhal, ruler of Arabel, had requested his presence, was proof that he was blessed.
Life was good.
The group passed through a corridor that Adon was unfamiliar with and he attempted to pause as they passed a mirror, but the guards nudged him on. Somewhat annoyed, he complied.
One of the guards was a woman with dark skin and almost black eyes. It pleased Adon that women had been allowed into the ranks so easily. 'Find a city ruled by a woman and you will find true equality and fairness throughout the land,' had been his motto. He smiled to the guardswoman, and knew that his choice of the city of Arabel as his new home had truly been a wise one.
'What honor am I to be awarded for my part in bringing down the foul villain Knightsbridge? Have no fear, if you tell, I'll say nothing and seem completely surprised. But the suspense is almost more than I can bear!'
One of the guards snickered, but that was the only response Adon received. The cleric's recompense for his work for the city had been slight, and he had petitioned the minister of defense on the matter. Now Myrmeen Lhal had personally intervened, and Adon could guess why.
Adon's role in bringing down the conspiracy was to seduce the mistress of one of the suspected conspirators, a woman who was rumored to talk in her sleep. Adon performed admirably, but his reward was almost a week in the company of guardsmen, watching the movements of two mercenaries the minister of defense had recruited for the Knightsbridge matter.
The battle with the traitor, when it finally occurred, was brief and startlingly without conclusion. Knightsbridge had escaped, although Adon himself had discovered the whereabouts of the conspirator's war room and a personal ledger that held information that could only be interpreted as the key points of the conspirator's attack against Arabel.
Adon turned from his memories back to the present. They were traveling downward, ever downward, to a dirty, dusty section of the fortress that Adon had heard of, yet never visited before.
'You're quite certain our lady requested to meet me here, and not, perhaps, in the royal chambers?'
The guards remained silent.
Light had suddenly become a precious commodity, and the cleric heard the sound of scurrying rats from somewhere down the hallway. Behind them he heard the sound of massive doors swinging shut. The echo was deafening in the midst of the corridor's silence.
The guards had taken flaming torches from the walls, and the heat from the torch behind Adon was making him uncomfortable.
The only sounds now were the footfalls of the group as they plunged ahead. And though the broad shoulders of the guard before him blocked Adon's view of what lay ahead, he had a fair idea.
A dungeon! Adon shouted in the relative safety of his own head. These buffoons have led me to a dungeon!
Then Adon felt the hands of the guards on him, and before he could react, he was thrown forward. His lean yet muscular body absorbed most of the fall as he rolled and sprang into a fighting position just in time to hear a steel door swing shut. The lessons Adon had suffered through on the art of self defense would have come in handy had he realized the situation earlier.
He cursed himself for surrendering his war hammer so easily and, just for a moment, cursed his own vanity that had clouded his reason. These rogues were loyal to Knightsbridge! The cleric was sure that his compatriots, Kelemvor and Cyric, would soon be joining him.
We were fools, Adon thought. How could we have believed the threat to be over simply because one man had been driven off?
There was no light in the room, as Adon dusted off his fine clothing. He had worn his favorite silks and carried a handkerchief laced with gold — in case the lady became overwhelmed with tears when he accepted her proposal and became royal consort. His boots were shined, and even the tiniest glint of light reflected off them, despite the filth he had been forced to walk through.
'I'm a fool,' Adon said to the darkness.
'So I'm told,' a woman's voice answered behind him. 'But we all have our weak points.' Then Adon heard the striking of flint and a torch was lit, revealing the bearer of the light, a beautiful dark-haired woman.
Myrmeen Lhal.
Her eyes caught the reflection of the flames, and the flickers of fire seemed to dance just to celebrate her beauty. She wore a dark cloak, parted at the waist, and Adon stared at the fullness of her proud bosom that heaved in its chain mail dress.
Adon opened his arms and walked forward to his love, a warrior woman who had the courage and the wisdom to control a kingdom.
Life was better than good.
'Stand your ground unless you relish the idea of leaving here as naught but a stuck pig.'
Adon held his ground. 'Milady, I — '
'Do me the honor,' Myrmeen said angrily, 'of limiting your answers to 'yes, milady' or 'no, milady.''
The ruler of Arabel moved forward and the cleric felt the cold tip of a blade pressed against his stomach.
'Yes, milady,' Adon said, then was silent.
Myrmeen moved back and studied his face. 'You are fair,' she said, though she was in truth being kind. The cleric's mouth was a trifle large, his nose a shade from perfect, and his jaw was far too angular to be considered particularly pleasing. Still, there was a boyish, mischievous quality that lurked behind his far too innocent to be believed eyes, and a soul that sought adventure, both in service to his goddess and to many of the fair ladies of Arabel — if rumors were to be believed.
Adon allowed himself a smile that quickly vanished as the knife point found a new home somewhat lower. 'A fair face, coupled with a healthy, serviceable body…'
Serviceable? Adon began to wonder.
'And an ego the size of my kingdom!'
