Free Tantras by Scott Ciencin Page B

Cyric had already done that.” Lhaeo bowed his head again and covered his face with his hands. “I let them get away - No. I helped them get away. I gave Midnight her spellbook… and some other things.”
    Mourngrym frowned and turned to Kelemvor. The fighter stood silently over the scribe, his face devoid of all emotion.
    “I should have realized that the guard inside the tower was dead,” Lhaeo snapped, suddenly angry. “Someone should have seen us and sounded the alarm. I never thought that they…” The scribe shuddered and looked up at Kelemvor. “I can never forgive myself for what has occurred!”
    Mourngrym tried to remain calm, but anger marched across his features like a rampaging army. “The killings occurred before you arrived, Lhaeo. You must not blame yourself.”
    Lhaeo swallowed and bowed his head again. “You must place me under arrest.”
    Mourngrym stepped back from the scribe. “Consider yourself under house arrest,” Mourngrym said flatly. “Do not leave Elminster’s Tower unless it is to procure food and drink for yourself. That is my final word.”
    The scribe lifted himself from the floor, bowed before his liege, and turned to leave. “One other thing,” Mourngrym snapped before Lhaeo could leave. “Do you know where the criminals were headed when they left?”
    The scribe turned. Kelemvor could see that his face was white, and anger clouded his eyes. “Yes,” Lhaeo said through partially clenched teeth. “They are going to Tantras.”
    Mourngrym nodded, but Kelemvor held up his hand. “Wait, Lhaeo. You just said that you thought Elminster was alive. Don’t you believe that anymore? Do you think that Midnight and Adon… murdered him?”
    Shoulders drawn tight, the scribe stood up straight. His voice was barely louder than a whisper as he spoke. “After what they did in the tower, I believe they are cold-blooded killers. Worse still, they have fooled good men-like Elminster. Like you, Kelemvor. They must be brought to justice!”

III
THE NEREID
    In the privacy of his own thoughts, Cyric had murdered Adon well over a hundred times. During the trip down the Ashaba, the thief often imagined himself bashing the cleric with an oar and watching as the pathetic, weak-willed man allowed the river’s current to swallow him up without a fight. But the sudden, unwelcome intrusion of reality would always shatter Cyric’s daydreams. Adon would begin to weep, and Midnight would try to comfort him by stroking his hair and whispering into his ear. At those times, Cyric quivered with anger and thought of even bloodier ways to dispose of Adon.
    Still, travel down the river was generally quiet and uneventful. Since they rarely spoke, these lulls gave the heroes far too much time to think. At the moment, highsun was approaching and Cyric’s stomach growled as he contemplated a fine banquet. The food they had taken from Shadowdale was filling but far from appetizing, and so the thief didn’t relish the thought of eating, even though he was hungry.
    Midnight shared Cyric’s feelings. As she sat in the bow, trying to study her spellbook, swatting away annoying, bloated mosquitoes, thoughts of fine meals drifted through her head, too.
    “A few more hours of this and I’m going to become delirious,” Midnight said at last, slamming her spellbook shut. “We need to eat something.”
    “No one’s stopping you,” Cyric croaked, his throat dry from the intense heat of the midday sun.
    Midnight frowned. She was hungry, but she wanted Cyric to rest for a while and eat, too. The thief hadn’t allowed her to take a turn at the oars since they left Shadowdale, and he just snorted and shook his head when Midnight had suggested Adon try to row. “You need to rest, Cyric. Why don’t we pull in to shore and all eat something?”
    “Because the dalesmen might catch up to us, and I, for one, don’t want that to happen,” Cyric said. Midnight crossed her arms and leaned back into the how. The thief