The caravan passed, and soon faded from view. Adon returned to the campsite only to find a roaring fire and Midnight preparing something that appeared to be meat, but smelled quite awful. She seemed intent on the task before her, ordering Kelemvor to turn the meats at certain times as she sliced vegetables with her dagger.
The meal was not turning out well, and it seemed that the party would go hungry that night when Cyric held up a small pouch he had found with Mystra's gifts and motioned for quiet. He reached into the bag and pulled out entire loaves of sweetbread, armloads of dried meats, tankards of ale, blocks of cheese, and more. And yet the pouch seemed empty at all times, even as more food was taken from it.
"We won't hunger or thirst again!" Kelemvor said as he drank his fill of the mead before him.
Later, as they ate a meal taken from the pouch, Kelemvor felt a tightness in the pit of his stomach. The food was dreadful, and he seriously questioned the wisdom of eating any food taken from a magical source during this time of instability in the art. The heroes finished their meal without conversation, but the looks on their faces conveyed their thoughts quite well. Then Midnight broke the silence in the camp with a wish that Adon's healing spells would return at the earliest opportunity to settle their upset stomachs. The comment met with a hearty round of approval from both Kelemvor and Cyric.
As the meal was ended, Kelemvor and Adon stopped to examine the gifts that Mystra had given them, while across the camp, Midnight was helping Cyric clean up after their meal.
"Will you ride all the way to Shadowdale with me?" the magic-user asked Cyric as they gathered the leftovers.
Cyric hesitated.
"We have supplies, healthy mounts, and enough gold to make us wealthy for the rest of our lives," Midnight said. "Why not come along?"
Cyric struggled with his words. "I was born in Zhentil Keep, and when I left, I vowed never to return. Shadowdale is far too close for my liking." He paused and looked at the magic-user. "Still, my path seems to lead in that direction, no matter how much I desire it to be otherwise."
"I wouldn't want you to do something you didn't want to," Midnight said. "The decision is your own."
Cyric let out a deep breath. "Then I will go. Perhaps from Shadowdale I'll buy a boat and travel the Ashaba River for a time. It would be peaceful, I think."
Midnight smiled and nodded. "You've earned the chance to rest, Cyric. You have also earned my gratitude."
The magic-user heard noises from the other side of the campsite, where Kelemvor and Adon were still taking an inventory of Mystra's gifts. Adon had promised to keep Kelemvor honest, which met with a laugh and a powerful slap on the back from the fighter.
Midnight and Cyric continued their conversations about far-away lands, exchanging knowledge of customs, rituals, and languages. They discussed their past adventures, though Midnight spoke more on this subject than Cyric.
"Mystra," he said at last. "Your goddess…"
Midnight wiped her dagger clean and returned it to its sheath. "What of her?"
Cyric seemed surprised by Midnight's response. "She's dead, isn't she?"
"Perhaps," Midnight said. She thought about it for a moment, then went back to the small pit Cyric helped her dig to bury their refuse. "I'm not a child, not like poor Adon. I am saddened by Mystra's passing, but there are other gods to give thanks to, should the need arise."
"You don't need to hold back with me — "
Midnight stood up. "Finish this," the magic-user said as she gestured to the pit and walked off. Cyric watched her back as she left, then turned to the job before him. He remembered looking up at the warring gods and the childish glee that filled him as their blood was spilled. Ashamed of his reaction to Mystra's death, Cyric then turned his thoughts aside and concentrated on cleaning up.
Down the path, away from the campfire and Cyric, Midnight felt a coldness that had nothing to do with the thin mountain air. There's no point in grieving over Caitlan's and Mystra's passing, Midnight thought. She silently cursed Cyric for mentioning the goddess and scolded herself. There was no malice in the man that she could judge, only a lifetime of hardship that made him uncomfortable with any form of communication except the exact science of words.
Kelemvor, on the other hand, was Cyric's opposite in this regard. His actions and his unspoken declarations excited Midnight. Only when he tried to hide his feelings behind his curtain of ill-conceived and ill-timed banter did he assume the appearance of an infuriating lummox, betraying his many strengths. Perhaps they had a future together.
Only time would tell.
She approached Kelemvor and Adon, and the two were still bickering.
"We split it up equal!" Kelemvor snarled.
"But this is equal! You, me, Midnight, Cyric, and Sune, without whom — "
"You're not going to start about Sune again!"
"But — "
"Four ways," Midnight said coolly, and both men turned. "Do what you like with your share, Adon. Give it to your church if you will."
Adon's shoulders slumped. "I wasn't being greedy…"
Kelemvor seemed ready to question this.
"Perhaps you need some rest," Midnight said, and the young cleric nodded.
"Aye, perhaps this is so."
Adon walked away, the flickering light of his torch showing him the trail that led to the campfire beyond. Sliding on one of the rocks, then righting himself, Adon mumbled something else about Sune and was gone.
"How do you feel?" Midnight asked. "Were the tender mercies of this woman's cooking to your fancy?"
"Shall I speak plainly?" Kelemvor said.
Midnight smiled. "Perhaps not."
"Then I feel fit to carve a kingdom from these rocks."
She nodded. "I feel that way myself." She motioned to the riches before them. "Shall we?"
"Aye. It's always a pleasure to work with a keen mind and a level head when it comes to such matters."
Midnight stared at him, but he did not take his gaze from the treasure. Before them the gold lay in piles on the stump of a huge tree. There were rubies, bits of jewelry, and a single, strange artifact that Midnight bent low to examine. She cried out in joy, picked up the magical item, and grinned at Kelemvor.
"We will be splitting this five ways it seems!"
Kelemvor sat back, "What do you mean?"
"This is a harp of Myth Drannor. Elminster is a known collector of these. If all else fails, we may use it to gain his audience."
Kelemvor thought about it. "But what's it worth?"
Midnight refused to be discouraged. "We won't know until someone makes an offer, now will we?"
"Oh. Aye, good thinking."
"Each of the harps is said to possess magical properties," Midnight said as she handled the object. The harp was aged, although it had once been a thing of shining beauty. The finely wrought ivory and gold inlays had been realized by a true artisan, and the dark red wood reflected the fire from the torches as if it still retained its original polish. Midnight plucked at the strings without skill, and the sound that issued forth was a strange, discordant flow of reverberating notes that grew louder and caused Kelemvor's armor to shake as if an unseen force was attacking him.
"MID — "
Suddenly each and every tiny clasp that held it in place popped open, and Kelemvor's armor fell to the ground.
"— NIGHT."
Kelemvor sat, covered in nothing but a chain mail tunic, his armor spread around him in a heap. Midnight's mouth was open wide as she worked her jaws soundlessly, then she fell over in a fit of laughter.
"See here!" Kelemvor frowned.
"Please!" Midnight said, discouragingly.
"No, I meant…" The fighter looked down at the armor and sighed.