Tantras (40 page)

In the middle of the afternoon, Adon sent a messenger to deliver a note to Midnight at the Lazy Moon. Adon then found himself alone in a lush garden that lay at the rear of the temple. A beautiful statue of a golden lion stood in the center of the garden, seeming to stare lazily at Adon as he sat on a stone bench.

Allowing his facade of contentment to drop, the cleric mulled over all that he had seen and heard since he entered the gatehouse almost a day ago. Obviously something sinister was going on in the temple, and it seemed likely that Lord Torm knew nothing about it. Like all the fallen gods, the God of Duty was forced to rely on a human avatar. But Torm was also locked away in a palace, where only smiles of adoration could penetrate the carefully guarded walls. Adon shivered and closed his eyes.

“The gods are as vulnerable as we are,” Adon murmured sadly after a few moments.

I’ve long suspected it,” a voice said nonchalantly. The cleric opened his eyes, turned, and saw a man who was as ruggedly handsome as anyone Adon had ever seen. The man’s hair was red, with touches of amber. A neatly trimmed beard and mustache accentuated his strong, proud jaw. The eyes that gazed into Adon’s were a rich blue, with flecks of purple and black. Staring at the man’s face was not unlike watching a setting sun.

The man smiled warmly, genuinely. “I am Torm. My faithful call me ‘the Living God,’ but as I gather you already know, I am just one of many gods in Faerun these days.” The man held a gauntleted hand out to the cleric.

Adon’s shoulders sagged. This was no god. It was merely another cleric sent to test him again.

“Don’t torment me!” Adon snapped. “If this is another test of my worth -“

Torm frowned only slightly then gestured toward the statue of the lion. Suddenly a roar filled the garden, and the golden lion padded toward the red-haired man. Torm caressed the creature’s head, and the beast lay obediently at the fallen god’s feet. Torm turned to Adon and asked, “Is that proof enough for you?”

The scarred cleric shook his head. “There are many mages who could do that trick,” he said flatly.

Torm frowned deeply now.

“And even though your god resides here,” Adon added, “you are a madman or a fool for attempting that illusion. Magic is a dangerous force to wield, and I have no desire to endanger myself by remaining in your company.” The cleric stood and started to walk away.

“By all the Planes!” the God of Duty cried then stretched. “You don’t know how long it’s been since someone has dared to stand up to me! I am, above all, a warrior, and I respect that kind of spirit.”

Adon snorted. “Please stop the jests, mage. I don’t wish to be taunted any longer.”

The god’s eyes grew dark, and the golden lion stretched and moved to Torm’s side. “Though I may value spirit, Adon of Sune, I will not tolerate insubordination.”

Something told Adon he had made a mistake in angering the red-haired man. He looked at Torm and saw the purple and black fragments swirling around angrily in his eyes. The cleric saw power in those eyes, too - power and knowledge far beyond that possessed by any mortal being. At that moment, Adon knew that he was looking into the eyes of a god. The cleric bowed his head. “I am sorry, Lord Torm. I expected you to travel with an entourage. I never thought to meet you wandering in the gardens alone, unguarded.” The living god stroked his beard. “Ah. You now have faith in my words, I see.”

Adon shuddered. Faith? he thought bitterly. I’ve seen gods destroyed as casually as pigs on a market day. I’ve seen the beings most of Faerun’s humans worship act like petty tyrants. No, the cleric realized. I don’t have anything close to faith… but I do recognize power when I see it. And I know when to bow to save my own life.

The God of Duty smiled. “I left an image sitting upon my throne. It rests there, brooding, and I left orders that I was in an inhospitable mood and would severely punish any who dared to disturb me,” Torm said.

“But how did you get here without being seen?” Adon asked, raising his head to look at the god once more.

“The diamond corridors,” Torm told the cleric. “They begin the center of the temple and connect to every chamber. They are designed as a maze, so that few can travel them without becoming lost.” The fallen god paused and stroked the lion’s mane. “I’ve heard you have a message for me… that you have seen Lord Helm.” The god sat down again, and the lion slowly lowered itself to the ground at Torm’s feet.

The cleric told as much of the story as he could, leaving out mention of the murders that Cyric committed and Elminster’s claim that one of the Tablets of Fate was hidden in Tantras.

“Bane and Myrkul!” Torm growled as Adon finished his tale. “I should have known those treacherous curs were behind the theft of the tablets. And Mystra dead, her power scattered throughout the weave of magic surrounding Faerun! Dark and shocking news.” The God of Duty closed his eyes and sighed. Adon could almost feel the fallen god’s sorrow.

A man wandered into the garden and froze when he saw Adon and Torm, then ran back inside the temple. The God of Duty seemed to have missed the man’s entrance and hasty exit, but Adon did not. He knew that the garden would be filled with Tormites very soon.

The god opened his eyes. “I regret that I cannot help you with your quest to save the Realms,” Torm told the cleric. “I am needed here. I have a duty to my faithful.” The God of Duty put his hand on Adon’s scarred cheek and said, “There is something I can help you with, though. You must look inside your heart if you are to banish these dark, guilty thoughts that consume you and make you so bitter. What were you before you joined your order?”

The cleric pulled away from the god’s touch as if it were fire. “I was… nothing,” he whispered. “I was a burden upon my parents. I had no true friends.”

“But now friends and lovers grace your life,” Torm noted, smiling once more. “From what you have told me, the mage and the fighter seem loyal to you. That, above all, is important. You should honor them, in return, with faithful service to them and their causes. You cannot do that if you are consumed by your own sorrows.”

Torm balled his gauntleted hand into a fist. “Don’t waste your life in self-pity, Adon of Sune, for you cannot serve your friends… or your god, if your heart is weighed down with grief,” the fallen god said.

Adon heard voices from inside the temple. People were coming. The scarred cleric leaned close to the God of Duty.

“Thank you for sharing your wisdom, Lord Torm,” Adon whispered. “Now let me fulfill my duty to help you. All is not as it seems in your temple or in Tantras. There are forces around you that could tear the city apart. You must look to your clerics and find out what they are doing to serve you. Not all dutiful service is done with justice in mind.”

The voices grew louder then a dozen high priests entered the garden and fell to their knees before Torm. The lion roared in annoyance as the men babbled an almost endless torrent of problems that required their god’s immediate attention. Torm rose, smiled at Adon, and turned to the temple’s nearest entrance. The golden lion and the crowd of priests followed the god as he left the garden.

Several minutes later, Adon was taken from the garden and locked away in a dark chamber that was devoid of any furnishings. The room reminded the cleric of the cell he had shared with Midnight in the Twisted Tower, but he tried to push those thoughts aside as he waited. It was several hours before a tray of food was brought to him by a silent, surly guard.

“I’m not hungry,” Adon mumbled, his grumbling stomach betraying his lie. “Take the food away and tell me why I’m here.”

The guard left the food then departed. An hour later, Adon had finished the meal, which consisted of slightly stale bread and cheese. Soon afterward, a familiar, platinum-haired man entered the chamber, a large smile hanging artfully upon his lips.

“Tenwealth!” Adon gasped and stood up.

“It seems you had quite an adventure today,” the priest said. The tone he used would have been suitable for a child. Adon felt insulted. “Would you care to talk about it?”

“What is there to say?” Adon grumbled, a frown pulling at the scar on his cheek, darkening the wound.” I had my audience with Torm. Now I’m ready to leave. Why are your guards unwilling to release me?”

“My guards?” Tenwealth said through the false smile. “Why, they are Torm’s guards. They serve the God of Duty and are only doing his will.”

“And have I been kept here under his orders?” Adon asked, taking a step toward the priest.

“Not exactly,” Tenwealth admitted, running a hand across his chin. “You’re not being ‘kept’ here at all. There’s no lock on your door, no guard outside.” The priest paused and opened the door. “Of course, there is the danger that you could become lost in Torm’s maze before you reach the exit. That would be most unfortunate. Some who have been lost in the diamond corridors have never been heard from again.”

Adon looked down at the floor. “I understand,” he said dejectedly, then slumped to a sitting position against the wall,

“I thought you might,” Tenwealth noted confidently, his perfect smile gleaming in the darkened chamber. “Have a good rest. In a few hours, I’ll return for you. You have an audience scheduled with the High Council of Torm. That should set your mind at ease.”

The priest left the chamber, and Adon considered the hopelesness of the situation for a little while then fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. Several hours later, Tenwealth returned with two guards. Adon was fast asleep, and the priest had to shake him roughly to awaken him.

As Adon followed Tenwealth out into the corridor, a plan began to form in his mind. The cleric decided that he would grab a weapon from one of the guards as soon as they were clear of the corridors and fight his way out of the temple. He knew that it was probably suicide, but it was a far better way to die than to be executed in secret. So Adon kept careful watch on the proximity of the guards and played the fool as they marched along. Though Tenwealth became annoyed at Adon’s idiotic patter, Adon noted that the two guards relaxed considerably.

Adon was about to make his move against the nearer of the guards when, at the end of the corridor, he saw a white-bearded old man carrying a harp. Suddenly the cleric grabbed a torch from the wall, broke away from Tenwealth and the guards, and ran toward the old man. The platinum-haired priest cried out an order, and the guards raced after the scarred cleric.

“Elminster!” Adon cried as he raced down the hall. “You’re alive!”

The old man looked up in alarm. He had been arguing with another priest of Torm, and a momentary flicker of surprise passed across his face when he saw Adon racing toward him. Then he frowned and stood perfectly still.

The young cleric stopped directly before the old man. The blazing torch bathed the minstrel’s face in warmth and light, and the heat from the flames made the white-bearded man draw back. And though Adon was certain that he had recognized the man from farther down the hall, closer examination revealed the old man to be someone other than Elminster. The scarred young man was about to turn away from the minstrel when he saw the tip of the old man’s nose begin to melt.

“Elminster!” Adon said, his voice cracking, just as Tenwealth’s guards reached out for him.

The minstrel looked around, gauged the confusion of the Tormites, and cast a spell before anyone was aware of his true intention. The air crackled, and a shimmering mist of blue-white energies filled the corridor.

“All of ye will accompany Adon and me out of the temple and beyond the citadel. Then ye will return and act as if nothing has happened,” Elminster ordered. Tenwealth, the two guards, and the priest nodded stiffly.

The sage smiled. The mass suggestion spell had actually worked! It was the first incantation that had gone right in some time, too. The old mage decided that it must be the close proximity of Torm’s avatar that was stabilizing magic a bit, then thanked the Goddess of Luck for good measure and gestured for the Tormites to lead the way out of the corridor.

Adon stood frozen, staring in a mixture of shock and relief at the sage. “Elminster, what are you doing here?”

“My intention was not to save thy worthless hide, I assure ye,” the mage growled, wiping a bit of wax from his nose, “Unfortunately, ye left me no choice.” Elminster started after the Tormites. When Adon didn’t move, he turned back and said, “Ye were hit with that spell, too. If ye dally long enough to make me suggest a course for ye to follow, ye’ll not like where it takes ye.”

Adon gladly followed the sage. Memories and thoughts whirled in the cleric’s mind. Adon knew only that he was relieved to see Elminster alive. Tears of joy streamed down his face.

“Wipe that silly grin from your face and those tears from your eyes,” Elminster grumbled as they left the corridors and entered the temple’s courtyard. “We don’t want to arouse any suspicion.”

“But I have so many questions -,” Adon began breathlessly.

“They can wait,” Elminster snapped.

Adon followed the sage’s commands, and within a short time they were several blocks away from the Temple of Torm. They tried to lose themselves in the crowd as soon as Tenwealth and his men headed back to their home.

After a few minutes of pushing their way through milling crowds, Adon turned to Elminster and asked, “Now can you give me some answers?”

“Not until we’re safe,” Elminster grumbled.

Adon’s relief was quickly giving way to anger. Grabbing the sage’s arm, the cleric forced the old man to stop. They were on a crowded main street that led to the highest of the citadel’s towers, and that building’s golden spires were in full view from where they stood. Shops lined the avenue around them.

“Listen to me, old man,” the scarred cleric growled. “We’ll never be safe as long as we remain in Tantras. The Council of Torm will send its agents after us no matter where we hide. Where we stand at this instant is as good a place as any for you to explain yourself. Now tell me what I want to know.”

“Unhand me,” Elminster said calmly, his eyes as narrow as a cat’s before it springs. “Then I’ll tell ye what ye wish to know.”