Twisted Tower rang with activity as the thief made his way back to his room to prepare for eveningfeast.
After he changed his clothes, the thief turned to leave his room. As he walked toward the door, his boot slid across a slick patch of wood on the floor. He regained his balance, then looked down. Had one of the clumsy cows they called 'serving girls' in the tower made a mess she was too dainty to clean up? Cyric wondered. There, in the center of the room, was a stain that looked like blood.
Cyric's fingers trembled as he reached down and touched the red stain. He smeared his finger in the liquid, then touched his finger to his tongue, just to see what the liquid was.
Something exploded in his skull, and Cyric felt his body fall backward into the far wall, then land on the bed. He was dimly aware of the damage he had caused to the wall and to himself, but his perceptions swam in a fantastic haze of sights and sounds. The thief was finding it hard to tell his delusions from reality.
He was only certain that someone else was entering the room, closing the door, and locking it.
And before he passed out, Cyric realized that the man was laughing.
The next thing the thief was aware of was an odd taste in his mouth, like bitter almonds. His throat was dry, and sweat poured into his eyes. The sound of his own breathing came to him: raspy and without steady rhythm. His skin felt as if it had been flayed. Sight and sound returned suddenly, and he found himself lying upon his bed. A gray-haired man sat on the edge of the bed, facing away from Cyric.
'Don't try to move yet,' the man said. 'You've had quite a shock.'
Cyric attempted to speak, but his throat was raw and he began to cough, which only caused a greater pain.
'Settle back,' the man said. Cyric felt as if something were pressing him back against the bed. 'We have much to discuss. You won't be able to raise your voice above a whisper, but don't worry. My senses are quite acute.'
'Marek,' Cyric croaked. The voice was unmistakable. 'It can't be! You were arrested in Arabel.'
Marek turned to face Cyric. He shrugged. 'I escaped. Have you ever heard of a dungeon that could hold me?'
'What are you doing here?' Cyric said, ignoring the man's boasts.
'Well…,' Marek said, and rose from the bed. 'I was on my way back to Zhentil Keep. I grew tired on the road. My documentation — the same documentation that gave me access to Arabel — was taken from a soldier outside Hillsfar. A professional mercenary, actually. He won't be missed.
'I claimed that I was on my way back to rejoin the conflict between Hillsfar and Zhentil Keep, which I assumed the people of Shadowdale would see as a worthwhile enterprise. My cover, I was certain, was assured. I didn't know that Shadowdale was preparing for a war of their own with Zhentil Keep, and the guards demanded I join their damned army!'
'What happened to your cache of magical items that you bragged about in Arabel? Couldn't you have used them to escape the guard?' Cyric said.
'I was forced to leave almost all of them behind in Arabel,' Marek said. 'Are you expecting me to attack you? Don't be foolish. I'm here to talk.'
'How did you get into the Tower?'
'I walked in through the front door. Remember, I'm a member of the guard now.'
'But how did you know I was here?'
'I didn't. This is all chance, as all of life really is. As the guards tried to convince me that joining their army, even if it wasn't my own idea, would be beneficial for me, they described a small adventuring troop that came to the dale and was welcomed into the Twisted Tower itself for their aid to the town. Amazingly enough, part of the party sounded very much like the band you left Arabel with. It really wasn't hard to find you after that.
'By the way, I apologize for the effects of the potion that laid you out. Actually, there was one magical item I had managed to retain — this locket,' Marek said, and produced a solid gold locket that had been opened. A drop of red liquid that resembled blood fell from it and hit the floor. The liquid hissed as it touched the boards.
'I was shown to your room earlier today and told that I could wait for a few moments. When you didn't arrive, I became bored. I noticed that the catch on the locket seemed as if it might break. When I examined it, it did break and the potion spilled to the floor. And that's when you came in. Actually, I wasn't sure that it was you at first, so I hid in the closet. Then you tasted the potion, and, well, here you are.'
'What do you intend to do?' Cyric said. 'Will you expose me, as you did in Arabel?'
'Certainly not,' Marek said. 'If I do that, what's to stop you from exposing me? That, you see, is the reason for my visit. I merely wished for you to maintain your silence until after the battle.'
'Why?'
'During the battle, I'll make my escape. Switch sides. Return to Zhentil Keep with the victors.'
'The victors,' Cyric said absently.
Marek laughed. 'Look around you, Cyric. Do you have any idea how many men Zhentil Keep has mustered? Despite the preparations, and despite the advantage of the woods between here and Voonlar, Shadowdale doesn't have a chance. If you had any intelligence, you'd follow me out of here, follow right in my footsteps.'
'So you have told me,' Cyric said.
'I offer you salvation,' Marek said. 'I offer you a chance to return to the life that you were born for.'
'No,' Cyric said. 'I'll never go back.'
Marek shook his head sadly. 'Then you will die on this battlefield. And for what? Is this your fight? What is your stake in all of this?'
'Something you wouldn't understand,' Cyric said. 'My honor.'
Marek couldn't contain his laughter. 'Honor? What honor is there in being a nameless, faceless corpse left to rot on a battlefield? Your days away from the Guild have left you a fool. I'm ashamed that I ever thought of you as a son!'
Cyric turned white. 'What do you mean?'
'Just what I said! Nothing more. I took you in as a boy. Raised you. Taught you all you know,' Marek sneered. 'This is pointless. You're too old to change. So am I.'
Marek turned to leave. 'You were right, Cyric.'
'About what?'
'In Arabel, when you said I acted on my own. You were right. The Guild doesn't care whether or not you ever return. It was only me that wanted you back. They'd have forgotten long ago that you ever existed had it not been for my insistence that we try to draw you back.'
'And now?'
'Now I no longer care,' Marek said. 'You are nothing to me. No matter what the outcome of this battle, I never want to see you again. Your life is your own. Do as you will.'
Cyric said nothing.
'The effects of the potion are disorienting. You might experience some delirium before your fever breaks.' Marek took the locket and left it beside Cyric on the bed. 'I wouldn't want you to dismiss our conversation as a fever dream in the morning.'
Marek's hand had just closed over the doorknob when he heard movement from Cyric's bed. 'Lay back down, Cyric. You'll hurt yourself,' he said, just as Cyric's dagger entered his back.
The thief watched as his former mentor fell to the floor. Moments later Mourngrym and Hawksguard appeared at Cyric's door, along with a pair of guards.
'A spy,' Cyric said hoarsely. 'Tried to poison me… Came back to question me in return for the antidote. I killed him and took it.' Mourngrym nodded. 'You have served me well already, it seems.'
The body was removed, and Cyric climbed back into bed. For a time, he was poised on the brink of fantasy as the poison from the locket coursed through his system. He seemed to be trapped, half awake, half asleep, and visions ran through his head.
He was a child on the streets of Zhentil Keep, alone, running from his parents as they sought to sell him into slavery to pay off their debts. Then he was standing before Marek and the Thieves' Guild as they passed judgement on him, a ragged, bloodied youth they had found on the streets, robbing to survive; their judgement made him a part of the Guild.
But of course Marek turned away when Cyric needed him the most — when he was marked for execution by the Guild and forced to flee Zhentil Keep.
