“No,” Deverell agreed. “They never inhabited it, at least not for long. The town well ran dry within a year of Kanaglym’s completion. The dwarves sank a deeper well on the site of the old one. Eventually, they struck a limitless supply of water: the Waters of Forgetfulness.
“Within a month, they realized their mistake and renamed their beautiful well the Fountain of Nepenthe. A month after that, most of them abandoned Kanaglym completely. Those who were too stubborn to evacuate simply forgot where they lived and wandered off into the dark.”
“Then this isn’t Myrkul’s realm,” Midnight sighed. “Bhaal said there was an entrance to the Realm of the Dead below Dragonspear. I thought I had found it.”
“That you have,” Deverell responded, nodding toward the fountain.
“Under the water?”
“Aye. The dwarves dug this well so deep they struck Myrkul’s domain,” Deverell explained.
“It should be easy to reach, then,” Midnight said, peering into the dark pool. “A simple water-breathing—”
“No,” Deverell interrupted. “Not through the water. It drains your emotions and your memories.”
Midnight was not worried. “I have other ways to pass.” She was thinking specifically of teleporting, but a better idea presented itself to her. It was something called a worldwalk, which created an ultra-dimensional connection between planes.
Midnight had never heard of that spell before, but she had a good idea why she would be able to use it. Then, without giving the matter any conscious thought, she realized she knew not only how to perform the incantation, but how it was constructed, the theory that made it work, and that Elminster had developed the original spell.
The magic-user was astonished. There was no reason she should know all that. The information had simply come to her. She decided to see what else she could do. Midnight searched her memory for a complete listing of Elminster’s spells. Her mind was immediately flooded with the incantations for, construction of, and theory behind every spell Elminster knew, which seemed an endless list of magic. Reeling from the plethora of information, she turned her thoughts away from the ancient mage’s magic. Remembering an interesting spell she had once witnessed, in which a mage interposed a disembodied magical hand between himself and an attacker, Midnight explored her mind for information about that spell. Again, she immediately discovered that she knew everything about it, from how to perform the incantation to the fact that a wizard named Bigby had invented it several centuries ago.
Somehow, Midnight realized, she had acquired an encyclopedic knowledge of magic, almost as though she had access to a mystical book containing every spell ever invented. There was no doubt that this new ability was related to Mystra’s power, but the magic-user did not understand why it had come to her at this particular moment. Perhaps it was because she was so close to an exit from the Realms. Or perhaps it was simply another development in her expanding relationship to the planet’s magical weave. Whatever the reason, Midnight could not help but feel encouraged. She would certainly need every advantage available if she was to recover the Tablet of Fate from Bone Castle.
Contemplating the task of recovering the tablet brought Midnight’s thoughts back to Deverell and his interest in helping her. Turning to the lord commander, she asked, “You’re already dead, so what do you care what happens to the Realms?”
“A man’s honor does not die with his body,” Deverell replied. “As a Harper, I swore to uphold the good and combat evil wherever I found it. That vow will bind me until …” He nodded toward the fountain.
“I hope that’s a long time,” Midnight responded.
Deverell did not reply, for he knew that he didn’t have the willpower to resist the fountain much longer. “You look tired. Perhaps you should rest before you go,” he said. “I’ll watch over you.”
“I think I will,” Midnight replied. She did not know how long it had been since she had slept, but the mage suspected that there would be little opportunity for rest in the Realm of the Dead.
They went to one corner of the courtyard and Midnight lay down. It took her a long time to fall asleep, and then her rest was filled with dreams and bad omens. Still, she slept as long as possible and when she woke, her body—if not her mind—felt ready to continue her journey.
As she stood and stretched, Midnight noticed that a crowd of several thousand soul spectres had gathered in the courtyard.
“I’m sorry,” Deverell said. “When you fell asleep, word of a live woman’s presence spread quickly. They’ve come to look at you, but mean no harm.”
Looking at the spectres’ envious faces, Midnight felt sad for them. “It’s all right,” she said. “How long did I sleep?”
Deverell shrugged. “I’m sorry, but I no longer have a sense of time.”
Midnight started forward, then a thought occurred to her and she turned to Deverell. “If somebody died at Dragonspear Castle, would his soul come to Kanaglym?”
Deverell nodded. “Of course. The Fountain of Nepenthe is the closest access to the Realm of the Dead from the ruins.”
Midnight turned and addressed the crowd. “Kelemvor, are you here?” she cried. The crowd of soul spectres shifted uneasily and looked from one to another, but nobody came forward. Midnight breathed a sigh of relief.
The magic-user addressed the crowd again, this time expecting a response. “Adon, how about you? Come here so we can talk.” Midnight was not sure how she would feel about speaking to a dead friend, but she had to try. “Adon, it’s Midnight!”
Adon still did not show himself.
Five minutes later, Deverell said, “Perhaps he is scared, or could not resist the fountain for long.”
Midnight shook her head. “That’s not like Adon. He isn’t one to give up.”
Deverell searched the crowd. “Well, he’s not coming forward. I don’t think you’ll gain anything by waiting for him.”
Midnight reluctantly nodded. “Perhaps it’s for the best. It would only cause us both pain.”
“Then, if you’re ready,” Deverell said, extending a glowing hand toward the Fountain of Nepenthe.
Midnight gathered her courage and nodded. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
Deverell led the way through the crowd of soul spectres. When he reached the Fountain of Nepenthe, he stopped and turned toward Midnight. “Until swords part, then.”
Deverell’s farewell heartened Midnight, for she recognized his words as a warrior’s sign of respect. “May your noble heart save your soul,” she replied.
The magic-user looked back to the throng of soul spectres, searching for Adon’s face or some sign that he had come to see her off. The crowd remained a swarm of impassive and unfamiliar faces.
Midnight turned to the pool, trying to imagine what she would find on the white plain below. Finally, hoping that if her magic was ever going to be reliable, it would be reliable now, she summoned the incantation for Elminster’s worldwalk and performed it. A shimmering disc of force appeared over the fountain. Midnight took a deep breath and stepped inside.
Cyric stood before a small inn, his horse’s reins in his hand. The inn was located in the barren prairie between Dragonspear Castle and Daggersford. The tavern and lodge were in a stone building standing in the shade of six maples. The stable sat fifty yards to the west, its corral built over a small stream that provided a constant supply of fresh water.
But the stream was now clogged by dead livestock, and the stable had burned to the ground. At the tavern, the sign of the Roosting Gryphon lay on the snow, half-burned and illegible. The shutters were smashed and splintered, and wisps of greasy smoke drifted out the open windows.