Nevertheless, Bane feigned anger at the incompetence of his troops for not being able to overcome such simple defenses as he drove them on to their deaths.
"Not a speck of dust should be left in this temple that we don't know about," Elminster said. He was quite serious, though he knew he was asking the impossible. "Any items of a personal nature must be removed from this hall, as well. There's no telling what may prove useful to our enemy."
After the horrors Adon had encountered in the desecrated Temple of Tymora, he was reluctant to participate in Elminster's plans for the Temple of Lathander. Ultimately, though, the cleric was forced to think of the temple in the most base terms. It was brick and mortar, stone and steel, glass and dripping wax. A different configuration of these elements and he might have been standing in a stable or an inn.
If it had been Sune's temple, Adon wondered, could he have been so cold and calculating? He touched the scar that lined his face.
He didn't know.
And so he busied himself with the tasks that had been laid out for him. The windows facing the invisible stairway on every floor of the temple were opened, their shutters removed. The windows that faced in all other directions were nailed shut. However, as he moved around the temple, Adon couldn't keep himself from noticing the small items that had been left behind in every room he visited. This was a place of fierce devotion and belief, and yet it was also a place where men and woman laughed and cried over the joys and sorrows life had brought to them.
One of the beds was unmade. Adon stopped his work and set about the task of making it before he realized what he was doing. He drew back from the bed, as if the power of the priest who had lay there that morning would reach up and destroy him.
As Adon stepped back from the bed, he noticed a black leather journal hidden beneath a pillow. The journal lay face down and open. Adon turned it over and read the final entry. It read:
Today I died to save Shadowdale. Tomorrow I shall be reborn in the kingdom of Lathander.
The journal fell from his hands and Adon ran from the small room, the window he was supposed to nail shut still open, its curtains blowing gently in the gathering winds that caressed the temple as if they were alive.
The cleric returned to the main chamber, and Midnight was surprised by the pale, worn look on the cleric's face as he approached. She knew that he had been struggling to maintain his resolve, even in the face of his grief and confusion, but there was little she could do to help him.
Or herself, for that matter.
But as the magic-user thought about the battle that was to come, she could not help but think of Kelemvor. And although Midnight regretted the harshness of her final exchange with the fighter, she knew that Kelemvor had found her out. No matter what she might say, she loved him. Perhaps, she thought, he loves me, too.
Midnight had long ago discovered that Kelemvor had a vulnerable side; his posturing was meant to draw attention away from the dark secret of his curse. He was more intelligent and caring than he would ever be willing to admit. And that gave Midnight hope.
Perhaps, she thought.
The sound of Adon yelling grabbed Midnight's attention, and she let the possibilities of her relationship with Kelemvor slip away. The cleric was standing next to the old sage, repeating the same phrase over and over, but Elminster was ignoring him.
"It's done!" the cleric screamed.
The sage of Shadowdale turned a page in the book he was studying.
"It's done!" Adon yelled again. Elminster finally looked up, nodded, mumbled, and went back to the crumbling tome he poured over, gingerly turning the pages so they would not become dust and cheat him of some secret bit of knowledge that might turn the tide in the battle with Bane.
Adon walked off to sulk in a corner.
Midnight watched the old man, and absently fingered the pendant. The great hall of the temple had been cleared, the pews moved off to the sides of the room. The dark-haired magic-user had given up her efforts to fathom the sage's reasoning. All would be made clear, he had promised. There was little she could do but place her trust in the wizened sage.
"Do you wish to use the pendant now, good Elminster?" Midnight said as she walked to the sage's side.
Elminster's face was suddenly plagued with a half-dozen new wrinkles. His beard seemed to draw up slightly. "That trinket? What use have I for that? Ye may keep it. Perhaps it will fetch a pretty penny at the fair in Tantras."
Midnight bit her lip. "Then what would you have me do here?" she asked.
Elminster shrugged. "Fortify this place, perhaps."
Midnight shook her head. "But how? You didn't — "
Elminster leaned over and whispered in her ear. "Do ye not remember the rite of Chiah, Warden of Darkness?"
"Of Elki, of Apenimon, draw from thy power — "
Elminster grinned. "The dream dance of Lukyan Lutherum?"
Midnight felt her lips tremble. She recited the incantation perfectly, yet Elminster stopped her before she could finish.
"Read for me now, from the sacred scrolls of Knotum, Seif, Seker…"
The words erupted from Midnight and suddenly a blinding flash of light filled the room. Then, a beautiful, intricate pattern of blue-white light raced across the walls, floor, and ceiling. It burst through the partially opened doorway leading to the antechamber. In an instant, the temple was ablaze with eldritch fires. Then the pattern sank into the walls of the temple and was absorbed.
Midnight was stunned.
"That wasn't so difficult, now, was it?" Elminster said and turned away.
"Wait!" Midnight cried. "How can I remember what I've never learned?"
Elminster raised his hands. "You cannot. It is time to prepare for the final ceremony. Go and ready yourself."
As Midnight turned and walked away, Elminster felt a wave of trepidation pass through him. From the night of Arrival, he had been preparing for this moment. His sight had revealed that he would be met by two allies in this battle, but the identities of his champions had startled him at first, filling him with a dread he would have to be a madman or a fool to ignore.
Of course, Elminster had not survived more than five hundred winters in the Realms by being either a madman or a fool, though many claimed he was both. Still, though, he would soon place his very existence in the hands of an inexperienced magic-user and a cleric whose faltering belief not only in the gods he worshiped but in himself might bring about the downfall of the temple's only defenders.
Midnight had quite accurately identified her plight as that of a pawn of the gods, and Elminster sensed that the magic-user was intrigued by the attention, as if she believed she had been singled out for some purpose. Such vanity, Elminster thought. Unless, of course, it was true. He had no way of telling.
How he longed for the assistance of Sylune, who had had the sense to leave the Realms before they could fall into such a horrid state, or even the Simbul, who had not responded to any of his communications.
"Elminster, we are ready," Midnight said.
The sage turned and faced the dark-haired magic-user and the cleric. The main doors of the temple had been propped open, waiting to release the energies that might consume them all.
"Perhaps ye are at that," Elminster said as he studied Midnight's face. There was not a trace of doubt to be found in the magic-user; her primary interest was the safety of the Realms. Elminster knew that he had no choice but to trust her. "Before we begin, there is something ye must know. Mystra told ye of the Tablets of Fate, but she did not tell ye where ye can find them."
Understanding dawned on Midnight. "But you can. The spells I helped you perform in your study, to locate intense sources of magic in the Realms — "
"One of the tablets is in Tantras, although I cannot give ye the precise location," Elminster said. "The other eludes me completely. Although, given time, I could certainly find it.