wound in water, then bandaged it with a dressing torn from the hem of his robe. He suffered greatly, but he lived, and this was some small consolation. I filled his mouth with a gag and bound him securely, though I knew he was in too much anguish to move. I spoke soothing words, telling him that he would survive until the witch returned to save him. Whether he heard me or not I cannot say, for his eyes were closed and his breathing was fast and shallow.
In his Glorious Wisdom, Our Lord of Murder chose to overlook this insult and did not strike me dead on the spot. Certainly I deserved it. Aside from mocking the One, I was wasting time.
I went to the window and peered around the heavy drape. To my great relief, the moon still bathed the citadel in its pale glow, and the stars still burned in the purple sky. I studied the constellations to learn the time, then surveyed them again. Only an hour remained before dawn!
Hastily I looked out over Candlekeep, trying to guess where the book might be hidden. Below my window lay the fortress’s great ward, ringing the entire span of the citadel. Along its outer edge rose more buildings than I could count-stables, temples, workshops, sleeping quarters-all standing tight against the massive outer walls, all crammed full of Flaming Fists, Hellriders, and other defenders of thieving Oghma’s monks.
In the center of the citadel rose an outcropping of dark basalt, terraced into many levels and mottled with thickets of trees, and laced by winding paths and cascades of steaming water. Here rose the fabled towers of Candlekeep, scattered hither and thither across the hill, each at the end of its own path, each as tall as a titan. And atop the mount stood the mighty Keeper’s Tower, surrounded by a curtain of steam and looming above all the other spires.
At once, I knew where I had to go-not because the Keeper’s Tower was the safest place to guard the Cyrinishad, and certainly not because Ruha had gone there only moments earlier-I had no wish to follow that woman anywhere. I had to go because a soft, sinister rustling was hissing down from the great spire, filling my ears with a murmur as relentless as it was gentle. The Cyrinishad was calling; the book was a living, sentient thing, and it could sense that I was near.
As I watched, a wedge of yellow light appeared at the base of the Keeper’s Tower and shot across a drawbridge, silhouetting the veiled figure of the witch. She stopped to speak with the guard, and I remembered the token Pelias had offered her. Though the distance was too great to see if she displayed the emblem, I felt certain that only those bearing such wards were allowed inside the Keeper’s Tower.
I returned to Pelias’s side and rummaged through his robe until I found a small disk of bronze. My dear friend had served me yet again! I pulled the cloak over my head, then sliced away the bottom to avoid tripping on the hem, and then I felt the blood-soaked wool clinging to my stomach.
My hopes vanished in a breath. What sentry would let me pass with such a stain on my frock? And even if Tymora favored me and I somehow avoided the door guard, Ruha and Ulraunt would soon discover my escape and raise the alarm. And even if I found the Cyrinishad before they caught me, there would be Gwydion to deal with. Surely, he slept beside the book like a dog by its master. The moment I touched Cyric’s prize, he would leap up and slice me in half and send my poor soul on its way to Kelemvor!
Yet, I had no choice except to try. My desperation became my friend, for a hopeless man can try anything and lose nothing. I left with no clearer plan than this: to go to the Keeper’s Tower in all haste, slip through its halls in complete silence, and deal with anyone who challenged me just as I had dealt with Pelias. If at all possible, I would find the Cyrinishad and do as the Prince of Madness commanded.
I left the building by a side-window and crept a third of the way around the ward,
In his Glorious Wisdom, Our Lord of Murder chose to overlook this insult and did not strike me dead on the spot. Certainly I deserved it. Aside from mocking the One, I was wasting time.
I went to the window and peered around the heavy drape. To my great relief, the moon still bathed the citadel in its pale glow, and the stars still burned in the purple sky. I studied the constellations to learn the time, then surveyed them again. Only an hour remained before dawn!
Hastily I looked out over Candlekeep, trying to guess where the book might be hidden. Below my window lay the fortress’s great ward, ringing the entire span of the citadel. Along its outer edge rose more buildings than I could count-stables, temples, workshops, sleeping quarters-all standing tight against the massive outer walls, all crammed full of Flaming Fists, Hellriders, and other defenders of thieving Oghma’s monks.
In the center of the citadel rose an outcropping of dark basalt, terraced into many levels and mottled with thickets of trees, and laced by winding paths and cascades of steaming water. Here rose the fabled towers of Candlekeep, scattered hither and thither across the hill, each at the end of its own path, each as tall as a titan. And atop the mount stood the mighty Keeper’s Tower, surrounded by a curtain of steam and looming above all the other spires.
At once, I knew where I had to go-not because the Keeper’s Tower was the safest place to guard the Cyrinishad, and certainly not because Ruha had gone there only moments earlier-I had no wish to follow that woman anywhere. I had to go because a soft, sinister rustling was hissing down from the great spire, filling my ears with a murmur as relentless as it was gentle. The Cyrinishad was calling; the book was a living, sentient thing, and it could sense that I was near.
As I watched, a wedge of yellow light appeared at the base of the Keeper’s Tower and shot across a drawbridge, silhouetting the veiled figure of the witch. She stopped to speak with the guard, and I remembered the token Pelias had offered her. Though the distance was too great to see if she displayed the emblem, I felt certain that only those bearing such wards were allowed inside the Keeper’s Tower.
I returned to Pelias’s side and rummaged through his robe until I found a small disk of bronze. My dear friend had served me yet again! I pulled the cloak over my head, then sliced away the bottom to avoid tripping on the hem, and then I felt the blood-soaked wool clinging to my stomach.
My hopes vanished in a breath. What sentry would let me pass with such a stain on my frock? And even if Tymora favored me and I somehow avoided the door guard, Ruha and Ulraunt would soon discover my escape and raise the alarm. And even if I found the Cyrinishad before they caught me, there would be Gwydion to deal with. Surely, he slept beside the book like a dog by its master. The moment I touched Cyric’s prize, he would leap up and slice me in half and send my poor soul on its way to Kelemvor!
Yet, I had no choice except to try. My desperation became my friend, for a hopeless man can try anything and lose nothing. I left with no clearer plan than this: to go to the Keeper’s Tower in all haste, slip through its halls in complete silence, and deal with anyone who challenged me just as I had dealt with Pelias. If at all possible, I would find the Cyrinishad and do as the Prince of Madness commanded.
I left the building by a side-window and crept a third of the way around the ward,
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