Tantras (9 page)

When she got a firm footing on the boggy shore, Midnight turned back to the skiff and held out her hand. “Come on, Adon.”

The cleric did not move.

“Adon, get out of there and join us!” Midnight snapped and put her hands on her hips. The cleric trembled, then rose to his feet.

“And bring us some food while you’re at it!” Cyric yelled as he searched the shore for a likely campsite.

Adon reached down and picked up the smaller of the canvas bags that lay near his feet. He handed the sack to Midnight, then grabbed the mage’s other hand and climbed from the boat.

“We’re a good little dog, aren’t we?” Cyric said in a high-pitched, taunting tone. The cleric’s shoulders sagged.

“That’s enough!” Midnight snapped. “Why do you keep badgering him?”

The thief shrugged. “When he acts like a man, I’ll treat him like one. Not before.” Cyric dusted off a small rock and sat down.

“There’s no need to be so cruel,” Midnight said. “When you were wounded in the Stonelands, Adon stayed with you. He did all he could to help you. The least you could do is return the favor.” The mage threw the bag of food to the ground.

Instead of responding, Cyric leaned forward, grabbed the sack, and started to rummage through it. In the rough canvas bag, the thief found carefully wrapped preserved meats and flasks filled with mead. “At least you could see my wounds, when we were ambushed in the Stonelands. Adon’s are merely in his head.”

“That doesn’t make them any less real,” Midnight said coldly. “You could at least make an effort to be pleasant… if our friendship means anything to you. A little compassion won’t kill you.”

Cyric looked up and saw Adon leaning against the tree their boat was secured to, one arm around the warped and knotted trunk. The cleric’s eyes were filled with apprehension, and he was standing on his toes as if he were prepared to jump out of the way instantly if anything threatened him.

Digging into the canvas sack, Cyric found a chunk of bread and brought it to the cleric. Adon wiped his hands on his tunic. His entire body quaked as he cautiously reached out and took the bread from the thief. Staring at the offering in amazement, the cleric looked as if he were going to burst into tears. “Thank you,” Adon said in a small, broken voice. “You are kind.”

“Aye,” Cyric mumbled as he exchanged glances with Midnight. “I am far too kind.”

They ate quickly and in silence. When they were done, Cyric went to the boat and withdrew the oars. He found a tree stump and set the oars down, then searched until he found a fallen branch the width of his thigh and chopped the log into two even pieces. These he sunk into the earth on either side of the stump. The thief sat down and positioned the oars, using the stumps as the oarlocks in their boat.

“You’ve trained with a staff,” Cyric said as he led Midnight to the stump, “so the basic movements of rowing should be easy for you to master.”

“Just a minute, Cyric,” Midnight snapped as she brushed his hand away from her arm. “I’ve rowed a boat before. You don’t need to teach me.”

“But do you know the best way to row, the most efficient technique?” When Midnight didn’t respond, Cyric grabbed her arm again and almost pushed her down onto the stump. “If you row the wrong way, you’ll only tire yourself out, and you won’t be of much use to anyone then. Sit down and pick up the oars.”

For the next fifteen minutes, Cyric taught Midnight the proper rowing technique for their skiff. The mage learned quickly, and soon Cyric leaned back and let her practice on her own.

As he lounged against a rock, twirling his dagger, Cyric noticed Adon staring at the oars. “You’ll learn next, cleric. I want the boat in motion as much as possible.”

Adon nodded slowly and a half-smile crept across his face. Cyric continued to look at the cleric for several seconds, but the thief turned away quickly when he realized that he had balled his hands into fists. “Midnight can teach you later, when we stop for eveningfeast.”

The heroes packed up quickly after that, and Cyric was careful to hide any evidence of their presence on the shore. Midnight took a turn at the oars for several hours that afternoon, and the thief seemed to relax a bit when he saw that Midnight had learned to row properly. In fact, Adon and Midnight were more comfortable, too. The cleric even laughed once when Cyric stretched after a long yawn and nearly fell out of the skiff.

While Midnight was rowing, the boat passed into a section of the river where there seemed to be no current at all. That made rowing quite a bit easier for a while, but the current picked up again suddenly - still in the wrong direction, of course. Though this was disheartening for the heroes, they tried to be cheerful. That was difficult, though, and tempers were flaring again by the time Cyric headed toward shore for eveningfeast.

When they docked, Midnight let Cyric start a small fire while she waded into the river to cool off after a long afternoon of rowing. Adon sat on the mossy bank, dangling a long stick in the water as he daydreamed. But as the mage stood in the chilly water of the Ashaba, a sharp pain bore into her leg. She let out a sharp cry and nearly fell over.

Cyric rushed into the waist-deep water and steadied Midnight as she tried to regain her footing. “What’s wrong?” the thief asked as he helped the raven-haired mage toward shore.

“I don’t know,” she gasped through clenched teeth. “I think something bit me.” Midnight felt another spike of pain shoot through her leg. When she looked down, the mage could see a pair of shimmering, crimson lights darting back and forth beneath the surface of the water. Cyric cried out then, too, and a third blood-red glow blinked to life in the Ashaba.

On shore, Adon paced back and forth, holding out his hands. “Get out,” he said softly, over and over again.

The water churned as Cyric and Midnight rushed to shore. The tiny, lancing pains came more frequently, and more than a dozen of the strange blood-red lights were visible in the river now. The number had doubled before the heroes reached the bank and Adon helped them to shore.

The cleric stood by, smiling contentedly as Midnight swabbed a myriad of tiny cuts on her legs. Cyric crouched over the edge of the water, his right hand poised to snatch something from the river. The thief plunged his hand into the water once, then stepped back from the bank. When he opened his hand, a small, wriggling fish dropped to the ground. The glowing creature’s razor-sharp teeth accounted for half the length of its body, and its tiny body seemed to have been set afire with the blood it had stolen.

“The river!” Midnight gasped as she pointed to the Ashaba. There was a large concentration of the glowing parasites, and the water roiled where the creatures attacked one another. More than a hundred had entered the bloody frenzy. Even as the heroes watched, the patch of red luminescence from their gorged bodies continued to spread.

“There must be thousands of them,” Cyric said as he moved back to the bank. “I can see them swarming.” The thief paused for a second, then turned back to Midnight, a sardonic grin on his face. “Rather reminds me of the dalesmen after your trial in Shadowdale.”

“I can’t see a thing other than the glow,” Midnight replied, turning away from the thief.

“I have very good vision, even at night,” Cyric said as he stared at the fish tearing each other apart.

Midnight didn’t look at the thief. “Just like Kelemvor,” she said absently as she started to break up the camp.

“You’re still thinking about him?” Cyric’s voice was suddenly as cold as the river’s icy water. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Cyric, I’m grateful for all that you’ve done for me, and even for Adon,” Midnight sighed. “I’d be dead right now if it weren’t for you. I know that. But I felt something for Kelemvor that I can’t even explain.” The mage shook her head and carefully placed her spellbook into a pack.

Cyric was very quiet. His attention seemed to be riveted on the glowing parasites. The blood pool was widening steadily.

“Even in Shadowdale, before the battle, Kel refused to stand with me,” Midnight said flatly. “Then at the trial, I was certain I was going to die, and -“

“Say, Adon, why don’t you take a dip!” Cyric yelled, gesturing for the cleric to come closer.

“Don’t start in again, Cyric,” Midnight snapped wearily as she tied the drawstring on the pack she was filling. “Why do you even talk to me at all if you don’t care to hear what I have to say?”

“You know what I care about?” Cyric growled as he crouched beside the river, the blood-red glow from the fish reflecting in his eyes. “Getting to Tantras alive. Those tablets are important, and together we can find them.” He turned to look at Midnight, but the red glow seemed to linger in his eyes even after he’d turned away from the river.

Adon had wandered over to Midnight and now sat huddled at her feet. The cleric was staring at Cyric as if the thief were some horrible creature that had crawled from the forest. Midnight stopped fidgeting with the pack and stood shaking her head. “Even with Elminster’s help, we barely managed to defeat Bane. The three of us are going to be hard-pressed to succeed on this quest.”

Cyric smiled. “On the journey to Shadowdale, you performed some pretty impressive acts of magic. Spells you had never studied were suddenly at your fingertips. Incantations far beyond your training seemed to trip off your tongue with ease.” The thief stood up and spread his arms. “You have all the power we need - if we stay away from the gods. Even then…”

“The power was in Mystra’s pendant,” Midnight mumbled. “And the pendant was destroyed in the Temple of Lathander. The power you speak of is gone.”

“Have you attempted any spells since then?” Cyric asked as he walked toward the mage. “Who can tell what powers that trinket may have left you?”

“I have no desire to court disaster,” the raven-haired mage snapped. “Magic is still unstable. I don’t care to attempt a spell unless I need to.”

“Is that your only reason for holding back?” Cyric asked. “Or is it that you’re just afraid?”

“I’m not on trial anymore.” Midnight hefted the pack and tossed it into the boat, but before she could walk back to Adon’s side, Cyric grabbed her by the arm.

“Just answer one question,” Cyric began slowly. “How did you survive the destruction of the temple? I stood in the ruins and examined the very spot where you and Adon were found. There was wreckage all around, yet you escaped without a scratch.”

“Tymora’s luck,” Midnight mumbled as she pulled away from the thief’s grasp.

Suddenly Adon stood up and walked to Cyric’s side. “Tymora is dead,” he whispered. “All the gods are dead.” Both Midnight and Cyric stared at the cleric as he walked to the boat and climbed in.

“Only magic can account for what happened at the temple, Midnight,” Cyric said at last. “Your magic. I don’t know how, but you gained some kind of power from that pendant. And we need that power to recover the Tablets of Fate.”

“Why are you so anxious to find the tablets?” Midnight asked as she picked up a sack of food and tossed it to Adon in the boat.

“Because others will want them. Many others. That makes them valuable.” Cyric looked back toward the river.

The blood-red pool had dissipated. “Perhaps even priceless.”

“What about Mystra’s warning?” the mage asked. “She said the tablets must be returned to the Planes, to Lord Ao, before the gods can go back to their homes and the Realms can return to normal.”

“If Lord Ao has the price I seek, then I will gladly deliver them to him. But until then, there is the simple matter of survival.” Cyric put out the small fire, and the camp was thrown into darkness.

“That’s madness!” Midnight hissed.

Cyric stood close to Midnight. “No… not even close. We’ve battled the gods, Midnight. We’ve seen them die. They don’t frighten me any longer.” Cyric paused for a moment, then smiled and whispered, “The gods really are no different from you… or me.” Even in the darkness, Midnight could see the sparkle in the thief’s eyes as he spoke.

Less than a quarter of an hour passed before the heroes were on the river once more, the bright moon lighting their way. Midnight spent most of the night sitting in the bow or taking an occasional turn at the oars, all the while pondering what Cyric had said about the gods and about her powers.

Midnight slept little that night. However, the next two days passed quietly, so the mage had a number of chances to doze. Adon gradually became more responsive. When it came time for Midnight’s next turn to row, the cleric held her spellbook open so that she could study, turning pages and searching out specific references at the mage’s request.

Cyric grew tired of the preserved meats and cheeses they had brought along for rations, so he decided to fish from the bow of the skiff. Although he didn’t have a bow and arrow, the thief tied their mooring line to the hilt of his dagger and successfully speared three large flounders on his first three attempts. Rather than enjoying the spoils of his skill, Cyric-seemed disappointed, as if there were no true challenge in the sport.

With the exception of another skiff traveling upriver an hour after Cyric, Midnight, and Adon had passed out of Mistledale, they saw no other craft during those two days. As evening approached and the sky turned to a rich amber, Adon noticed a patch of golden angel seaweed trailing alongside their skiff, as if it had been caught on the underside of the craft.

The cleric’s hand was steady as he reached over the side and dipped his fingers beneath the surface of the water to the seaweed. Its texture was like that of delicate human hair, affected by the strong current, but not snarled or matted. Memories of the sweet kisses and caresses he had been awarded by a host of beautiful women in his short time in the Realms engulfed the cleric, and a warm, knowing smile stretched across his face.

“What is he doing?” Cyric called from the bow.

Midnight looked up from her rowing. “He’s not harming anyone,” the mage said softly. When she noticed that Adon was smiling, she smiled, too. “It’s nice to see him happy.”

An almost imperceptible nod came from the cleric as he stared at the surface of the water, his hands tracing delicate forms upon the angel hair. But Adon tensed as he suddenly felt something solid beneath his hand. The cleric squinted into the golden, sparkling water and saw a lovely young woman floating underwater alongside the boat, her body translucent. The golden angel seaweed was in actuality her hair. As Adon watched, a pair of bright yellow eyes opened beneath the surface of the water, and the woman, as beautiful as any goddess, smiled up at the cleric and covered his hand with hers.