arcane legions that had attacked them, then rested beneath the night sky. They would go on. There were no dissenting votes.
Though he did not suggest turning back, it was clear that Cyric was worried about the strange events that had plagued them all day. Instead of discussing the battle, however, the thief gathered his blankets and went to sleep immediately after dinner.
Just before he attempted to sleep, Kelemvor watched as Caitlan sat alone, staring off at the horizon. The girl had said very little after the attack in the forest, and the fighter wondered what was going on behind her enigmatic stare. At times Caitlan appeared to be nothing more than a frightened child; at other times her intelligence and resolve reminded him of a battle-weary general. The contradiction was baffling.
Kelemvor himself had always refused the reins of command. He was uncomfortable with responsibility for anyone but himself. Why then had he accepted this quest with such unquestioning belief that he was the man to lead it? Kelemvor told himself that it had been boredom that spurred him on, causing him to accept the quest and leave Arabel. He needed adventure. He needed to leave the ordered, civilized life of the city behind. But there was another reason he chose to come.
She can cure you, Kelemvor.
The fighter knew it was better to cling to the shadow of hope than embrace the light of reality and find himself filled with despair. He could only hope Caitlan was telling the truth.
Kelemvor's thoughts continued in this vein until he fell into a deep slumber and dreamed of the hunt.
Midnight took the first watch as everyone else retired, her senses far too alert, far too alive to allow her to sleep or even relax.
As she sat, listening to the sounds of the night, the mage pondered Kelemvor's strange actions since the battle. At dinner, the fighter insisted that everyone help in preparing the meal. After they ate, he insisted that everyone help bury the garbage, so as not to attract scavengers. He seemed like a different man from the one she'd first met at the tavern in Arabel.
Perhaps the fighter had come to realize that Midnight was indeed a valuable part of the company, and he felt ashamed of his own poor judgment in accepting her only as a last choice, then having the bad taste to point out that fact again and again. Besides, there was one thing Midnight and he shared — a wild streak that marked them as fit for the life of wanderers and adventurers, and very little else.
Midnight spent the next four hours wrestling with her growing feelings for the fighter and her questions concerning the pendant that had been grafted to her flesh. Her thoughts led her in circles for hours, until Adon came to relieve her on the watch.
The cleric watched Midnight as she immediately fell into a deep sleep, and envied her. Still, despite the hardships and the horrors he had faced this evening, despite the foulness of the air, the stench of the dead lands that assaulted his nose, he knew the situation could be worse. At least he was in the company of stout-hearted comrades, and he was free. He didn't have to concern himself over the imminent danger of incarceration or the humiliation he would have faced had Myrmeen Lhal gone directly to his elders at the Temple of Sune.
No, he was free, and a better man for it.
On the other hand, just one silken pillow would have been welcome.
The bedchambers of Myrmeen Lhal were spectacularly designed, with a bowl-shaped ceiling crafted in tiers of concentric circles that spiraled upward to its center. The room was dominated by a huge round bed, a dozen feet in diameter, adorned with red silk sheets and a dozen soft gold-laced pillows. Works of art abounded; some breathtaking, others merely beautiful.
But the finest work of art, Myrmeen herself, could only be seen through icy black curtains, constantly charged by the finest illusionists of the city, that allowed her to look out on any exotic port of call with only the slightest prompt from her imagination.
Myrmeen rose from her huge bath, carved from the finest ivory by visiting artisans from far-away Shou Lung, and kept warm by jets of constantly flowing, heated water. The most exotic of oils and enchanted spices treated her skin to fiery delights pleasurable beyond the caress of even the most experienced lover. She hated to end her luxuriant session in the enchanted water, but she knew she dared not allow herself to fall asleep — not unless she wanted to find herself so lethargic by morning that she would have to postpone her duties for a week before the effects passed and she could think clearly again.
A translucent azure gown, sparkling with tiny stars, found its way to Myrmeen's hand. The gown dried her skin and set her hair in the most regal of fashions as she slipped it over her head.
The gown was the gift of a powerful — and amorous — mage who visited the city a year ago. And though the magic gown had been checked by her court magicians, Myrmeen worried that the unpredictability of magic might make it dangerous to wear, and promised herself she would do without it from now on. Of course, she had been promising herself this for almost a week.
If the gown kills me, Myrmeen thought, at least I'll look presentable for the clerics.
Suddenly she thought of Adon of Sune, and spasms of uncontrollable laughter raced through her. The poor sod was probably shaking in his boots, hiding in the most horrid of places, in fear for his life. Of course he wasn't in any real danger, but Myrmeen couldn't pass up the opportunity to take the conceited cleric down a peg or two; in fact, she had precious few chances to indulge her former talent as a trickster. She sighed and stretched upon the bed.
She was just about to ring for a page when she noticed something quite odd: the rubies of her golden chalice were missing. Myrmeen rose from the bed, her warrior's instinct dulled by years of rule, and moved too late to avoid the darkly clad man who rushed at her and slammed her back against the bed, knocking the wind from her in the process. She felt the man's weight upon her, holding her in place, as a hand closed over her mouth.
The man's face and body had been swathed in a gauze that appeared to be some sort of steel mesh. The strips over his face had been arranged to leave spaces for the man's eyes, nostrils, and mouth.
'Be still, milady. I have no wish to harm you,' the man said, his voice low and throaty. Myrmeen struggled all the more fiercely. 'I deliver word of the conspiracy.'
Myrmeen stopped fighting, and she felt her assailant's hold lessen a degree. 'How did you get in here?' she mumbled into the man's hand.
'We all have our secrets,' he said. 'It wouldn't do to give them up.'
'You — you mentioned… the conspiracy,' she said, her chest heaving with her imagined fear. She wondered if she should begin to sob, then thought better of it.
'The villain Knightsbridge is still at large.'
Myrmeen's eyes narrowed.
'But you knew this. What may come as news is that all three of the agents Evon Stralana used have fled the city. Kelemvor, Adon, and the former thief Cyric left in disguise before highsun in the company of two strangers.
'Was it not the hands of these three that allowed Knightsbridge to fly free? Think on this, milady. That is all I have to say.'
As Marek started to get up, Myrmeen rolled to the left, as if to bring her hands to her reddened face, and instead grabbed hold of the edge of the bed and delivered a kick with both legs to the stomach of the intruder. From his cry and the crack she heard, she guessed she had found the man's ribs.
'By the gods!' the thief shouted as Myrmeen delivered an open fist blow that narrowly missed his throat. He recognized the technique and grabbed her arm, realizing his mistake as she kicked sharply into his ankle, bringing a second howl of pain from his lips and causing him to release her arm before he could twist it from her shoulder. Myrmeen had been shouting the entire time, so it wasn't a surprise to Marek when the doors to her chambers burst open and a handful of guardsmen raced in.
Marek thought first of attacking the guards, or trying to run. But when he considered how easy it would be for him to escape from the pitifully constructed dungeons of Arabel, he held up his hands and surrendered.
'Get some answers from this dog,' Myrmeen said, oblivious to the stares her almost completely naked body had elicited. 'Well? Are you deaf? Move!'
She stopped one of the men. 'And send word that I wish to see the minister of defense in the planning room immediately!' She looked down at her torn nightgown. 'When I am more properly attired.'
'I told you not to complain about guard duty,' one of the guards said as he dragged Marek away, and
