course.'
'No need, Lord Bane,' Cyric said as he struggled to his feet.
Bane turned his back on Cyric and climbed to his throne. 'I hadn't expected to see you, thief,' the God of Strife noted.
'Reports from my assassins told me that you were dead. Of course, my assassins have hardly been reliable these days.'
Cyric shook his head, and confusion crossed his face. 'Wait a minute. What happened to Fzoul?' the thief asked numbly.
Settling back in his throne, the god laughed and tapped his forehead. 'The priest struggles for freedom… in here. We have a deal, you see. He does certain things for me. I allow him to rail at his fate and curse the world. Sometimes he gets out of control.' The Black Lord paused for a moment then smiled. 'He'll be punished later,' he said, seemingly to himself.
Looking off at the wall for a moment, Bane listened to Fzoul's cries for vengeance. The smile dropped from the god's face as he turned back to the thief. 'I see you wear my colors, Cyric.'
The thief looked down at the Zhentilar garb he had taken from the Company of the Scorpions. 'I suppose I do,' Cyric answered absently.
'Why have you come here, thief?' Bane asked gravely. 'You should have known that a slow, painful death is the most you can hope for at my hands. You are, after all, allied with forces that seek my destruction and the fall of my empire.'
'No longer, Lord Bane,' Cyric stated flatly. 'I entered Scardale with a troop of Zhentilar two hundred men strong, and all loyal to my command.'
'Oh, I see,' Bane snickered. 'You seek to usurp my power. Shall I abdicate now, Lord Cyric?'
The hawk-nosed thief remained perfectly still, his arms at his sides, his hands open, palms to the god. The sorceress approached Cyric, squinting as she stared into his face. Next she circled the man, examining him from every vantage.
'I have no intention of challenging you,' Cyric said, ignoring the giggling madwoman who still circled around him. 'I wish to offer my services to your cause.'
A single laugh escaped the lips of the Black Lord. In his mind, Fzoul was screaming.
You cannot trust him, the red-haired priest cried to the Black Lord. He will betray us. The thief will destroy us both!
Bane sent a horde of gibbering, imaginary terrors to chase away Fzoul's consciousness. For your impudence, I may just make him your commander when I'm done, Fzoul, the fallen god taunted to his avatar's mind as it retreated.
The god looked to the mortal who stood before him. 'Tell me why I should believe you,' Bane growled, the smile suddenly gone from his face. 'Your cursed friend, Kelemvor, played this game with me. He made a pact then reneged on his agreement at the first opportunity. What guarantee do I have that you would not do the same?'
Cyric started at the mention of the fighter's name. Perhaps his former allies were still alive after all. He quickly pushed all thoughts of Midnight and Kelemvor aside, though, and returned to the Black Lord's question. The answer was rather obvious. 'None,' the thief said firmly.
Bane raised a single eyebrow. 'You're honest, anyway.' The God of Strife paused then stood. 'Give me some proof that you favor my causes. Tell me about the mage.'
Cyric told the Black Lord more than he ever intended to relate. He informed Bane of almost all that had occurred from the time he first met Midnight in the walled city of Arabel, to the time they were separated on the Ashaba.
'I'm intrigued,' Bane said as he paced back and forth in front of his throne. 'For some reason, I actually think you're telling me the truth.'
'I am,' Cyric told the god. 'I've kept myself alive through much to offer my services to your cause.' The thief smiled and then explained the intricate series of deceptions that had kept him alive from the time Yarbro and Mikkel found him on the Ashaba's banks to the present. Tarana stood by the thief with her arms folded across her breasts. The mad mage hugged herself tightly as the bloodshed and violence was exposed by Cyric's casual narrative.
Bane shook his head as Cyric concluded his gory tale. 'In the last few weeks, you've betrayed everything you once held dear. What do I offer that you want so badly?'
'Power,' Cyric snapped, a little too emphatically. 'The power to shake empires one day.'
The Black Lord's lips trembled in amusement. 'You sound more like a rival than an ally, thief.'
Cyric took a step toward Bane's throne. 'The Realms are very large, Black Lord. When you have conquered them all, you will certainly be able to spare a small kingdom for me. After all, a true god cannot bother himself with the petty day-to-day operations of an entire world.' The thief paused and took another step toward the God of Strife. 'Give me a kingdom to run.'
The Black Lord was stunned. 'You have a gifted tongue, Cyric. Perhaps I should not waste such skills by slaughtering you where you stand, though that would be amusing.' Bane gestured for the sorceress to draw near. She had backed herself into a corner, near the door. 'Have Durrock released from his torments and brought before me. We are going to give the thief a chance to hang himself.'
Tarana bowed and raced from the chamber.
When she was gone, Bane walked to the thief's side. 'Now that my insane assistant has scampered away, is there anything about the mage you have not told me?'
A name flashed into Cyric's mind. Midnight's true name. The words were poised on the end of his tongue, but he drew them back. With that information, the Black Lord could lay claim to the soul of the mage in an instant, and Cyric wasn't sure that that would be at all acceptable. Not yet, anyway.
'No,' Cyric said firmly, looking up into the god's eyes. 'There is nothing else.'
The door to the chamber opened, and Durrock was brought before the Black Lord in chains. Cyric flinched as he stared at the assassin's disfigured face. Then he realized that the burn marks were very old. Only a few of the scars that lined his body had been inflicted recently.
'I am in a forgiving mood this day, Durrock. I'm sure it won't last,' Bane told the assassin then he returned to his throne. 'I have a task for you, assassin. You will travel to Tantras with this thief and spy on his former allies. You know them quite well, since you escorted them into Scardale.'
Durrock stiffened and bowed his head. Before the scarred assassin looked to the ground, Cyric saw an intense hatred flash in Durrock's eves.
Bane continued. 'As I told you before, I do not want the mage killed. The cleric is of no consequence. As for the fighter, Kelemvor Lyonsbane, I want his head adorning a gate on this building as soon as possible. Have I made myself perfectly clear?' Bane asked sharply.
'You have, Lord Bane,' Durrock answered, his voice a growl.
'You have a question?' Bane said when Cyric didn't answer quickly.
The thief nodded, glanced at Durrock then looked back at Bane. 'What if they discover the location of the… artifact we spoke of? What if they try to take it from Tantras?'
Bane frowned and gripped his throne tightly. 'Then, Cyric, they will all have to die.'
It had been two days since the heroes left the Port of Scardale in the stolen galley. At night, a glowing spot on the horizon had marked the location of the city the Queen of the Night journeyed toward. The cause of the unearthly light couldn't be explained, but as the travelers drew closer to the city, the illumination grew brighter. Other than this strange light, the journey across the Dragon Reach was uneventful. The slaves prowled the upper decks in shifts, luxuriating in the feel of the warm sun upon their faces. Adon, as usual, kept to himself. Midnight divided her time between long hours with her spellbook and wonderful, tender moments of love with Kelemvor.
After the escape from Scardale, the fighter had been more relaxed than Midnight had ever seen him, though he did have occasional bouts of worry that the curse had not been lifted for good. Although she was happy, too, the mage found herself wondering if Kelemvor would be happier going back to the adventuring life, perhaps even sailing with Bjorn and his crew. She wondered, too, if the fighter desired to follow that course rather than put himself at risk in Tantras. Soon, the question started to plague Midnight. Similar circumstances had driven a wedge between the lovers before, in Shadowdale, and she did not want history to repeat itself.
