"Very well," Thurbal said. He rose from the table and nodded to a guardsman who had moved behind the magic-user. The guard replaced the gag just as Midnight attempted a cry of protest. "I'm sorry," Thurbal said, "but I have my orders. The town fears your powers, and Lord Mourngrym refuses to allow the possibility that you will create havoc at the trial with your spells."
The prisoners were taken up the stairway of the Twisted Tower. They passed through a stone arch and stood on aching legs in the central corridor of the tower as Thurbal conferred with one of his guards. The corridor led from the main entrance and traversed two thirds of the tower's length; its width was so great that five people could have walked side by side without difficulty.
Just then the door to Mourngrym's audience chamber burst open, and a chorus of outraged protests erupted from within. The prisoners were taken through the audience chamber with a show of force that brought cheers from the massive crowd gathered in the makeshift courtroom. Despite the thick stone walls of the fortress, the sounds of the outraged villagers outside added to the pandemonium. Chaos threatened to overtake the proceedings.
A dais lay at the head of the room, and Lord Mourngrym stood at the center of the platform, a small lectern before him. Dalesmen of noble blood were seated behind him. The ruler of the dales clutched the edges of the lectern until his knuckles grew white as the prisoners were prodded up the narrow stairs and deposited before him. Thurbal followed the prisoners and took his place at Mourngrym's left.
Storm Silverhand, the famous female bard and adventurer, stepped forward from the crowd and moved to Mourngrym's right. Light from the open shutters and the few torches scattered around the room reflected in her silver-hued hair, and hatred flashed in her blue-gray eyes. Storm and Sharantyr, a ranger with the Knights of Myth Drannor, had discovered Midnight and Adon lying unhurt outside the shattered Temple of Lathander. They also had discovered the fragments of a body that must have been Elminster's, along with cloth from his robe and pages from one of the sage's spellbooks.
As the prisoners knelt before Mourngrym, the noise from the crowd in the audience chamber began to swell. Much of the surviving populace of Shadowdale had turned out for the trial, and both the courtroom and the area outside the tower were crowded with angry men and women who shouted curses at Midnight and Adon. The soldiers of Mourngrym's guard found it difficult to contain the crowd.
Standing among the group of spectators at the front of the chamber, Kelemvor stared at the vulnerable form of his former lover as she was forced to kneel before Mourngrym. The fighter studied the cold, inaccessible expression of the dalelord and understood why his petition for a private audience with him the previous evening had been denied. Mourngrym's fury over the loss of his friend was obvious, though he was attempting to put aside his personal feelings and act with impartiality.
Mourngrym raised his hand, and silence fell upon the court instantly. "We have gathered here to perform a solemn duty, not to howl like hungry dogs in the night. Let us act like civilized men. Elminster would expect us to do nothing less."
A murmur rose from the spectators, but as the noise died down, the low, growling laughter of one man continued. Kelemvor turned to his left and jabbed his elbow sharply into Cyric's side. "Shut up, you fool!" the fighter whispered.
Cyric sneered at Kelemvor and shook his head. "Wait until the trial is over, Kel. Then we'll see what you think of the dalesmen's grand claims of justice."
When Cyric turned back to the dais, Mourngrym had his gaze locked on the thief. Raising one hand in mock apology, Cyric bowed slightly. A rumble of angry whispers was rising from the crowd again, but Mourngrym raised both hands to still the sound and cleared his throat noisily.
"Midnight of Deepingdale and Adon of Sune, you stand accused of the murder of the sage, Elminster," Mourngrym began.
The silence of the crowd was shattered like a fragile crystal by Mourngrym's words. Shouting for quiet, the dalelord unsheathed his sword and held it high in the air. Torchlight played off the blade and seemed to transform it into a mystic weapon, brilliant, hard, and unyielding. The guards all drew their swords and held them up in like fashion. The angry murmuring was silenced.
"Justice will be served," Mourngrym said. "I swear it!" There were cheers, and Mourngrym allowed the crowd to settle once more before he continued. "This is a military trial," he pronounced. "As such, there will be no jury. As lord of the dale, the responsibility of judgment is mine.
"Since magic is unstable, we dare not attempt to look into the minds of the accused. Facts alone will shape my verdict." Mourngrym gestured to the silver-haired woman beside him. "Let the prosecution introduce its case."
Storm Silverhand stepped forward. "There are two inescapable facts. First, a body was discovered in the Temple of Lathander. True, it was battered and torn beyond recognition, but the body was found near scraps of Elminster's robe and fragments from a number of his ancient spellbooks." The bard turned to the crowd. "Our sage and protector was missing, obviously murdered."
Storm Silverhand turned to the prisoners and gestured toward them. "Second, these two were seen running from the temple only seconds before it was leveled by magical forces. Yet they survived unscathed." The crowd's screams and threats echoed in the room.
Unlike Mourngrym, Storm didn't wait for the crowd to quiet down. "It is obvious that these two murdered our good friend," she cried over the noise of the spectators. Midnight tried to protest from under her gag, but it was no use.
"Hold!" Thurbal cried, waving his cane in the air. The captain of the guard turned to face Mourngrym. "We must not assume the guilt of these people. We are here to determine what happened, not to lynch these two!"
A storm of boos and hisses erupted from the spectators. Cyric glanced at Kelemvor, but the fighter was staring straight ahead. Thurbal shook his head and sat down, and Mourngrym rapped the lectern with the pommel of his sword.
"One more outburst like this and we will hold these hearings in seclusion!" the dalelord warned in a loud voice. The crowd quieted down while the guards removed a few spectators who refused to stop shouting.
"The prosecution calls Rhaymon of Lathander," Storm pronounced, and a blond man dressed in bright red robes with thick bands of gold trim was led forward by a guardsman.
"Tell us about the last time you saw Elminster alive," Storm said.
The priest frowned thoughtfully, then began to speak. "My final duty on the day of the Battle of Shadowdale was to stand guard at the Temple of Lathander until Elminster arrived."
"Stand guard? Against what?" Storm asked. "What were your fellow priests worried about?"
Rhaymon frowned, as if he had been asked a foolish question. "Earlier that day, the Temple of Tymora had been attacked. We were all badly shaken. The priests of Tymora were slaughtered, the temple desecrated, and the symbol of Bane painted in blood on its walls. Also the healing potions stored in Tymora's temple were stolen."
"So you feared, naturally enough, that the same thing could happen at your temple?"
"Yes, that's correct," Rhaymon said. "Elminster said he had something important to do at the temple. He said he would guard it for us."
"Even with his very life?" Storm leaned close to the cleric.
Thurbal stepped forward, gesturing with his cane in protest. "She's putting words in his mouth. Let the man speak for himself!"