Turning away.
Always turning away.
Hours passed and Cyric rose from the bed. The red haze lifted from before his eyes. His blood had cooled, his breathing became regular. He was too exhausted to stay awake, so he simply collapsed on the bed again and surrendered to the tender embrace of deep, dreamless sleep.
'I'm free,' he whispered in the darkness. 'Free…'
Adon left Elminster's abode late at night, at the same time as the scribe, Lhaeo. The old man had actually shown concern over Lhaeo's well-being as he sent the man off to contact the Knights of Myth Drannor. Magical communication with the east had been blocked, and armed with Elminster's wards, the scribe would have to travel by horse to deliver the message to the Knights.
''Till we meet again,' Elminster said, and watched his scribe ride off.
On the other hand, Adon simply walked away, without raising a single word or gesture from the sage. He was halfway down the walk before Midnight caught up to him, and gave him a small purse of gold.
'What is this for?' Adon said.
Midnight smiled. 'Your fine silks have been ruined during our journey,' she said. 'You should replace them.'
She pressed the gold into the cleric's cold hands and attempted to warm them between hers. The breathless excitement she had felt all day was painfully apparent to the cleric. Besides attempting to fathom the answers to some of the mysteries that had plagued her all during the journey, Elminster had allowed Midnight to participate in some minor rites of conjuring. There were many instances however, when even Midnight had been shut out of Elminster's private ceremonies that evening.
The darkness had already enveloped Adon when Midnight called out, reminding him to return in the morning.
Adon almost laughed. They had set him in a tiny room and given him volume after volume of ancient lore to read so he might attempt to find some reference to the pendant Midnight had been given. It was a gift of the goddess, Adon argued. Forged from the fires of her imagination. It had not existed before she called it into being!
'But what if it had?' Elminster said, eyes gleaming. But Adon was not blind. Interspersed in the lore he had been given were tales about clerics who had lost their faith, then regained it.
They would never understand, Adon thought. His fingers touched the scar that lined his face and he spent the evening reliving their journey, attempting to spot exactly where he had committed such an affront against his goddess to warrant her desertion in his greatest time of need.
By the time he noticed where he was, Adon was startled to find how far he had traveled. He was long past the Twisted Tower, and the sign for the Old Skull Inn was just overhead. The gold Midnight had given him was still clutched in his palm, and he slipped it into one of his pockets before he entered the three-story building.
The taproom was crowded and filled with smoke. Adon had worried that he would find dancing and merriment, but he was relieved to find the people of Shadowdale as preoccupied with their thoughts as he was. Most of the inn's customers were soldiers or mercenaries, come to the Old Skull to kill time before the battle. Adon noticed a young couple who stood off to the far end of the bar, laughing at some private joke.
Adon sat with one elbow on the bar, resting his face in his open hand, trying to cover the scar.
'What spirits will you be wrestling with tonight?'
Adon looked up and saw a woman in her mid-fifties, with a pleasant, robust glow in her cheeks. She stood behind the bar and waited patiently for the cleric to respond. When his sole communication was a wounded, dying flicker from his once fiery eyes, she grinned and vanished behind the bar. When she returned, she carried a glass filled with a rich, violet brew that sparkled and sputtered in the light. Bits of red and amber ice whirled around in the drink, refusing to come to the surface.
'Try this,' she said. 'It's the house special.'
Adon lifted the drink, and a sweet aroma drifted to his nose. He squinted at the drink, and the woman gestured encouragingly. Adon took a swallow, and felt every drop of blood in his body turn to ice. His skin pulled taut against his bones and a raging fire burned its way through his chest. With trembling fingers he attempted to set the drink down, and the woman grinned as she helped him in the task.
Adon's breathing was heavy, his head spinning, when he asked, 'What in Sune's name is in that!?'
The woman shrugged. 'A little of this, a little of that. A lot of something else.'
Adon rubbed his chest and tried to catch his breath.
'I'm Jhaele Silvermane,' the woman said. 'And who are — '
Adon heard a slight hiss from the bar. One of the ice cubes was dissolving, and amber bands drifted through the liquid. 'Adon of Sune,' Adon heard himself say, then wished he could take it back.
'Nasty cut there, Adon of Sune. There are powerful healers in the Temple of Tymora who may be able to help you. They have quite a collection of healing potions. Have you visited them yet?'
Adon shook his head.
'How did you come by such a mark? Accident or design?'
Adon's flesh tingled. 'Design?' he said.
'Many a warrior would wear such a mark as a badge of courage, of lawful service.' Her eyes were bright and clear. She meant every word of what she said.
'Aye,' the cleric said sarcastically. 'It was something like that.'
Adon gripped the glass once more and took another drink. This time his head became slightly numb, and there was a buzz in his ears. Then that sensation passed, too.
'A toast!' someone shouted. The voice was dangerously close. Adon turned to see a complete stranger raising a flagon above his head. The stranger wore a grizzled mane of stringy hair, and he seemed to be the veteran of many conflicts. His huge hand reached out and clasped Adon's shoulder.
'A toast to a warrior who has faced the forces of evil and brought them low in the service of the Dales!'
Adon tried to intervene, but a huge roar went up as every man and woman in the inn saluted him. Afterward, many came forward and slapped him on the back. Not one shied away from the ragged scar that marked his face. They shared tales of battles, and Adon felt strangely at home. After about an hour, the stool beside him scraped against the floor and a lovely crimson-haired serving girl sat down beside him.
'Please,' Adon said as he hung his head, 'I want to be alone.' But when he looked up, the woman had not left. 'What is it?' he said, then realized she was staring at the scar. He turned away and covered the side of his face with his hand.
'Fair one, you need not hide from me,' she said.
Adon looked around to see who she was talking to. The woman was staring at him.
Adon found himself staring back. The woman's hair was full and wild, with thick curls that reached to her shoulder and framed the soft contours of her face. Her eyes were a soft, piercing blue, and her elegantly chiseled features supported the mischievous grin she wore. Her clothes were plain, but she carried herself with the manners of royalty set at ease.
'What do you want?' Adon said softly.
Her eyes brightened. 'To dance.'
'There is no music,' Adon said, shaking his head.
She shrugged and held out her hand.
Adon turned away and stared into the depths of his newly replenished drink. The woman dropped her hand to her side, then sat down next to Adon once more. Finally, he looked over to her.
'Surely you have a name, at least?' she said.
Adon's expression grew dark as he turned to her. 'There is no place for you here. Go about your duties and leave me alone.'
'Alone to suffer?' she said. 'Alone to drown yourself in a sea of self-pity? Such actions hardly befit a hero.'
Adon almost choked. 'Is that what you think I am?' A nasty sneer fixed upon his face.
'My name is Renee,' she said, and held out her hand once more.
Adon tried to hold his hand steady as he took her hand in greeting. 'I am Adon,' he said. 'Adon of Sune. And
