Pool of Radiance: Ruins of Myth Drannor

CHAPTER EIGHT

As the party emerged into full daylight, Kestrel squeezed her eyes shut, then forced open two narrow slits. After days spent in the dim torchlight of the dwarven undercity, the sudden brightness of the sun’s rays stung her eyes. Several minutes passed before she could open her lids wide enough to behold Myth Drannor’s acropolis.

They entered the Heights at the base of a large statue of a wizard. The elderly elven spellcaster was half-enveloped in a finely-woven mantle, its threads seemingly swirling about him. He stood with his hands thrust skyward and his head thrown back, an expression of intense concentration or ecstasy—Kestrel could not tell which—etched on his face. The pedestal on which the statue rested bore the name “Mythanthor.”

Behind them, the Speculum rose up in all its majesty and mystery. As Jarial had described, the structure was indeed shaped like a dragon. An enormous horned head dominated the main entrance, its jeweled yellow eyes glowering at all who dared enter the doors below. As Caalenfaire had told them, huge boulders and other piles of rubble blocked the entrance. Fore—and hindlegs projected out in high relief from the stone walls, and a curving exterior staircase formed the creature’s tail and back. The mighty beast lay curled around a large “egg”—a domed room in the center of the building.

Next to the Speculum stood an amphitheater. Its seats, many of them crumbling from age or assault, rose fully half the height of the Speculum dragon in a half-circle that matched the curve of the dragon’s tail. The stage was a large, but simple, white disc-shaped stone.

To the east lay the Onaglym, its intact state a testament to the unequaled engineering talent of the dwarves who constructed it so many centuries ago. While hundreds of Myth Drannor’s lesser buildings lay ruined by the ravages of war or years, the House of Gems yet remained, a strong, silent sentinel to the changes wrought by time and mortal vanity.

Castle Cormanthor graced the highest point of the Heights. It rose up from the cliff on which it was built, its many graceful spires reaching higher into the sky than any others in the city. At one time, walkways apparently had connected all the spires to the main castle and to each other, but most of these had been destroyed or damaged beyond use. Those that remained looked like a precarious challenge to even an acrobat’s sense of balance. The narrow spans, several hundred feet above the ground, had no rails, and nothing below to break one’s fall.

Moments ago, Kestrel had flushed with a sense of accomplishment at managing to leave the dwarven dungeons at last. But now, scanning the center of Myth Drannor, she realized much more work lay ahead. They had to find Harldain Ironbar, the ally Caalenfaire had mentioned. They had a Mythal to cleanse, an archmage and a dracolich to defeat, and a pool to destroy. She stifled a sigh. “I suppose we ought to head back to the House of Gems?”

Corran glanced at the Onaglym, frowning at the wisps of smoke that still drifted out of the Round Tower. “I suggest we explore a bit before seeking out Harldain Ironbar. That sorcerer might come back to the House of Gems looking for us, and I’d like him to think we’re long gone.”

“So would I.” Kestrel gingerly rubbed her right arm. Though healed of its worst injuries, her body still ached where the cultist’s magical strikes had hit her.

They headed in the opposite direction of the Onaglym, to an area southwest of the Speculum. This part of the city lay in almost complete ruin. Its once-stable ground had become marshy, and now the stagnant water and damp air slowly completed the destruction that the wars had started. Large chunks of marble, granite, and crystal lay strewn about like dice from the hands of giants, their surfaces eroded by the elements and covered with green-gray moss and other vegetation. Few buildings retained enough of their structure to be recognizable as former dwellings, businesses, or temples.

One such ruin caught Kestrel’s attention. A shell of white marble reached heavenward, the star symbol of Mystra etched into its largest remaining side. Mystra’s sign was barely visible beneath the new symbols covering the crumbling walls. The name and image of Llash, a three-headed snake god, had been painted and scrawled all over the building in thick black lines.

Corran stopped in his tracks when he saw the sacrilege. “It’s a mercy that Beriand’s eyes cannot behold this,” he said softly.

A light breeze stirred. From the ruined shrine came a sound like the whimper of an injured animal.

“Do you hear that?” Kestrel asked.

Ghleanna frowned in concentration. “Hear what?”

The sound drifted toward them again, this time resembling a crying woman. Kestrel glanced at each of her companions in turn, but all wore blank expressions. Could no one else hear that wail? “Never mind.” She shrugged, trying to dismiss the unsettling feeling creeping up her neck. “It must be the wind whistling through cracks in the walls.”

“Are you sure about that?” Jarial regarded her seriously. “If you think you hear something, Kestrel, we should check it out.”

The vote of confidence surprised her. “All right, then. I think I hear something—or someone—crying inside.”

They approached the shrine. The land surrounding it seemed particularly swampy. In fact, a large puddle of stagnant water had formed to one side of it. The closer they got, however, the more the hairs on the back of Kestrel’s neck rose, until her collarbone tingled.

“Stop!” The party came to an abrupt halt as Kestrel peered at the puddle. Was it her imagination, or did the water have an amber glow to it? “Unless I’m mistaken, that’s no ordinary water.”

Jarial, the only one among them who hadn’t seen Phlan’s pool, edged closer for a better look. “We can’t have found Myth Drannor’s Pool of Radiance so easily?”

“I wouldn’t stand so close if I were you,” Kestrel warned. She recalled all too clearly the sight of the bandit’s life being sucked away by a stray splash.

Ghleanna studied the puddle from a safe distance. “It’s too small and too exposed to be the source of the cult’s growing power. I suspect this is an offshoot, like the pool in Mulmaster. A spawn pool, you could call it.”

From within the ruined shrine, Kestrel once again heard the soft cry. This time, the wind carried words to her: “Where are the followers of Mystra?” And this time, the others heard it as well.

“Is that the cry you heard before?” Corran asked. At her nod, he started toward the entrance to what remained of the shrine. “Who’s there?” he called. “Are you all right?”

“Simply marvelous, my good sir,” answered a new voice. Though feminine-sounding, it was a harsher voice than the one they had heard previously. “So kind of you to ask.”

Corran stopped short just outside the doorway. He seemed about to speak, when he was interrupted from within.

“Oh, come now. Is that any way to greet two lonely ladies?”

“Forgive me.” The paladin appeared to recover himself. He cast a deliberate glance toward the rest of the group, then returned his gaze to the hidden speaker. “I believe we may have a common acquaintance. Are you friends of Preybelish?”

At Corran’s mention of the dark naga, Kestrel stifled a groan. Not more of the creatures? They’d had a bad enough time handling the first one.

“A distant relation of ours,” responded a second sibilant voice. “Sadly, we have not seen our cousin in years. How is he?”

“Quite peaceful, when last I left him.”

Kestrel turned to the others. If these nagas had the same mind-reading ability as Preybelish, the party would have to rely on Corran to keep them distracted while the rest of them devised a plan. She only hoped the pair remained unaware that the paladin hadn’t arrived alone.

At least this time, they had an idea of what kind of attacks to expect. They needed to stay clear of the nagas’ tails, while also avoiding any spells they might hurl. Jarial and Ghleanna whispered hurriedly about what sort of sorcery to use. In spare moments of the journey, they’d been working to expand their arsenal, developing new spells based on magic that opponents had used against them, and they were eager to try out some of the new incantations in combination with their old standbys. Kestrel gave one ear to them while keeping the other tuned to Corran’s conversation.

“Have you seen any activity around the castle?” one of the hissing voices inquired. “We hear a dracolich has made his lair there.”

“Really? Where within the castle?”

Kestrel had to give Corran credit for improving his subtlety skills. The paladin injected a casualness into his tone that he could not have felt.

“Inside a cavern, far below. From what we understand.”

Ghleanna and Jarial settled on their spellcasting plan. Jarial murmured to Kestrel not to forget Borea’s Blood, which she carried in a beltpouch. “Ozama’s ice knife had the power to paralyze. The shard blade may have a similar effect—worth a try, anyway.”

The sorcerers waved their hands, casting protective spells, including one on Corran, who, from his spot in the doorway, now chatted with the nagas about a marble idol of Llash, the snake god of poisons, that they had raised in the ruined shrine. When the mages were finished, they nodded in unison. Kestrel glanced around, lifting her hand, then brought it sharply down, signaling the attack.

Jarial and Ghleanna moved in first, each casting an offensive spell on a different naga. From Jarial’s fingers a lightning bolt seared one of the creatures with electrical energy, lifting her off the ground and propelling her across the room to land at the base of the statue. Before the other naga comprehended what happened to her sister, Ghleanna struck her with the same fiery evocation that Preybelish had used against the half-elf.

Durwyn followed the magical attacks with a pair of arrows. He missed Jarial’s naga, but Kestrel caught the creature between the eyes with a dagger. The beast’s head thumped to the floor.

“One down!” Durwyn shouted. Already, Kestrel breathed a little easier.

Beside her, Jarial began a second incantation. The injured naga rose, parts of her charred purple flesh still smoking. Hatred seethed from her gaze as she took in the party. “Vile humans!” She started a spell of her own.

Just as Jarial seemed about to complete his casting, he suddenly flew back and sprawled facedown on the ground. A hole in his back welled blood.

Kestrel spun around. A third naga had stolen up behind them, unheard in the noise of battle, and struck the human sorcerer with her tail.

“Arrogant wanderers!” the creature hissed. “How dare you bring violence into our place of worship?” She swung her tail again, this time aiming for Kestrel. The thief ducked and rolled away from the giant snake, but the creature drew back its tail for a second attack.

“Your place of worship?” Corran sputtered. “You blaspheme a house of Mystra with your profane idol!” He grabbed his warhammer and swung it against the black marble statue of the snake god, breaking off one of its three heads.

“No!” The naga’s tail dropped in mid-swing, her attention fully drawn to Corran.

The injured naga finished her spell, directing it at Ghleanna. Three bursts of dark magical energy sped toward the half-elf. When they came within a foot of her, however, they bounced off a shimmering barrier and harmlessly sputtered out.

“Llash damn you to the Abyss!” the thwarted creature swore.

Corran swung his warhammer at the base of the idol. The marble fractured, and the top-heavy sculpture wobbled. The paladin threw his weight against it, pushing it toward the monster. The idol tottered. Corran threw himself at the statue once more, this time toppling it onto the injured naga. It landed on her head with a mighty crash. The creature’s body jerked spasmodically, then fell still.

“Llash! Aid your servant!” the remaining naga cried. Unable to tear her gaze away from the fallen statue, she seemed oblivious to the enemies surrounding her. She slithered toward the idol.

Kestrel took advantage of her distraction to hurl Borea’s Blood. The ice knife caught the creature in the throat just below her head. The naga couldn’t even scream before the paralyzing cold numbed her upper body. Her head fell to the floor, where Durwyn easily removed it with a stroke of his axe.

The moment he struck the death blow, a loud hissing commenced outside the ruined shrine. Not another naga? Kestrel didn’t think so—this was a different sort of hiss, like that released by the last few drops of water in a pan boiled dry. She cautiously approached the doorway and peered out.

The amber pool was evaporating so rapidly that steam billowed into the sky. As the foul water dissipated, the land around it returned to health. Greenery once again graced the area surrounding the ruined shrine, and patches of blueglow moss appeared.

Kestrel turned to the others. “The pool’s gone!” Then an idea struck her. “I’ll be right back,” she called over her shoulder as she dashed out the door. She dug up a patch of the healing moss and brought it inside for Jarial. Ozama’s boots had saved him once again from the naga’s poison, but the creature’s barbed tail had inflicted a nasty wound. As Kestrel applied the moss to the sorcerer’s back, the air in the ruined shrine suddenly chilled.

“Where are the followers of Mystra?” beseeched a forlorn voice. The sound seemed to come from above. They all looked skyward—to find their view of the clouds veiled by a translucent ceiling.

The ruined walls of the shrine seemed to be restored, but in a shimmery, intangible state. At the same time, the Llash graffiti faded. All around them, features of the former temple reappeared—statues, tapestries, ritual objects. The ghostly shrine looked as it had centuries ago, before war brought it to ruin.

“Those faithful to the Goddess of the Weave—are they no more? Where are the servants of Mystery?” The plaintive voice echoed throughout the spectral building, but the speaker remained unseen.

“There are many who yet serve you in our time, my lady,” Corran called to the air.

Kestrel stared at him. “You think that’s actually Mystra’s voice?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“Where are the followers of Mystra?”

Kestrel didn’t believe they heard a divine call. Wouldn’t a goddess, of all people, know where her followers were? As it was, the voice held such melancholy that she didn’t think she could listen to it much longer. “Can we leave before whoever she is drives us mad?” She retrieved her weapons and went to clean them on the grass outside while Durwyn helped Jarial to his feet.

When she returned, Corran still cast a searching gaze heavenward. “She sounds so sorrowful,” he said. “We should try to help her.”

The sad voice stirred a response in Kestrel as well—not that she’d ever admit that fact to Corran. Unlike the quixotic paladin, she knew they couldn’t afford any more tangential delays. “Like we helped Nottle? Look what that cost us.”

The words came out more sharply than she intended. Corran turned his head away, but not before she saw a look of bitter regret cross his features. Apparently, the paladin felt the responsibility for Emmeric’s death more keenly than she’d realized.

“All right, then,” Corran said quietly, his back to them all. “Let us go.”

Injured, tired, and nearly out of spells, the party voted to visit Beriand and Faeril before returning to the House of Gems. Though the elven shelter lay out of their way, there they could find healing and a safe place to rest.

Kestrel hadn’t apologized to Corran for her earlier barb about Emmeric, though her conscience pricked her. The delight she’d expected to feel at having discovered a way to wound him hadn’t materialized. She felt more hollow than anything else. There was no satisfaction, she realized, in causing a companion the chagrin his unguarded response had revealed.

Faeril greeted them warmly upon their arrival. “You have been busy!” she said as soon as she saw them. “Already, we feel a change in the Mythal.”

Corran acknowledged her with a bow. “For the better, I hope?”

“Oh, yes!” Faeril’s face shone, some of the careworn lines having faded since they last saw her. “Come inside. You must tell us of your deeds.”

Though eager to learn what the adventurers had accomplished, the clerics insisted on first tending to their injuries. The party was in sorry shape. While the blueglow moss and potions had relieved their immediate distress, Kestrel and Jarial yet moved stiffly. The wound Durwyn had received from Preybelish had not had time to heal of its own accord. Corran remained weakened from the cult sorcerer’s life-draining spell—the paladin had refused to use his limited healing powers on himself lest a greater need arise before the day’s end.

They shed their armor, grateful to be in a place of relative safety where they could rest and renew their strength. The elves tended the four wounded humans and also checked how well Ghleanna had healed under Corran’s care after Preybelish’s near-fatal attack. “I cannot even tell you were injured,” Faeril declared. She turned to the paladin. “Your faith must be strong indeed.”

Over a meal of roasted rabbit and hearty bread, Corran, Kestrel, and the others related their exploits in the dwarven undercity, ending with their ascent to the surface and their encounter at the shrine. “When the pool evaporated, a ghostly image of the intact temple appeared,” Corran concluded.

Faeril gasped, her thick slice of bread dropping to her plate. “By Our Lady, you have seen Anorrweyn’s shrine!” Her eyes shone with reverence.

“The shrine is one of several ghost buildings in Myth Drannor,” Beriand said. “The wars destroyed many structures, but some were so sacred to the elves that they refuse to disappear completely. From time to time, under certain conditions, these buildings reappear intact. When you defeated the naga and destroyed the spawn pool, you must have triggered the temple’s appearance.” He paused to sip from his goblet. “Did you ever see the crying woman you spoke of?”

“Just heard her,” Kestrel said, nibbling the last few shreds of meat off a bone. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until she’d started to eat. “ ‘Where are the followers of Mystra?’ That’s all she said—over and over.”

“How blessed you are—to have heard her voice!” Faeril exclaimed. She rose to pour more wine, beginning first with Durwyn’s goblet and ending with Beriand’s. Kestrel noted that she did not lift Beriand’s cup to pour, as she had with the others, but brought the bottle to the sightless cleric’s goblet.

“That was Anorrweyn Evensong, the founder of our sect,” Beriand said. “When evil magic destroyed the temple during the fall of Myth Drannor, its head priestess also perished. So strong was her devotion to Mystra that her spirit remained on this earth to continue her work. Whenever the ghost shrine appeared, so did she.” Beriand reached for his wine, his practiced hand going straight to the goblet. “For centuries after the temple’s physical destruction, followers of Mystra would visit the site and use talismans to invoke the apparition and speak to Anorrweyn. But in the past two hundred years or so, Myth Drannor has become so dangerous that pilgrims stopped coming. I doubt anyone has invoked the shrine in over a century.”

Durwyn frowned thoughtfully as he chewed his food. Finally, he spoke. “If the priestess shows up whenever the temple does, why couldn’t we see her?”

“I suspect because there was no follower of Mystra among you.”

“Anorrweyn’s cry must be answered!” Faeril said. She pushed aside her wooden plate, her supper forgotten in her zeal. “Let me return with you and prove to the high priestess that Mystra still has followers in Myth Drannor. We cannot leave her spirit to think that the city has fallen entirely to the nagas who debased her sacred shrine.”

Kestrel could tell by the expression on Corran’s face that the paladin was about to take Faeril up on her offer. She shifted uncomfortably, pushing aside her own plate and drawing her knees up in front of her body. She had a feeling she was about to be labeled selfish again, but someone had to keep this mission on track. “Not that I don’t feel sorry for your priestess and all,” she began, trying to use more tact than she had previously, “but we have more pressing matters.”

Corran turned toward her, his brows drawn in displeasure. Before he could speak, however, Faeril addressed her. “Anorrweyn can help your cause, Kestrel. I know she will!”

Beriand nodded his agreement. “Anorrweyn Evensong would prove a powerful ally against those trying to use the Mythal for their own wicked ends. In life she was dedicated to the causes of unity and peace, and was among the city leaders most in tune with the Mythal. She may know of ways to cleanse it that we do not.”

“In that case, we’d be honored to have you join us,” Corran said to Faeril. Kestrel bristled. She’d been about to concede the point herself, but once again Corran had spoken for the whole party without consulting anyone. She began to feel less contrite about her earlier remark.

The others were apparently tolerant of the paladin’s high-handedness. Ghleanna, in fact, extended the invitation to Beriand.

“Thank you for asking,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I would like nothing more. But I know that a blind man would slow you down, and time is too precious, your mission too vital.” He rose from the floor, leaning on his staff, and made his way over to his cot. “No, leave here tomorrow morn without me. When the cult is defeated and the Mythal restored, then shall I meet Anorrweyn Evensong.”

Long after the others retired, Kestrel remained by the fire, staring into the flames. Caalenfaire’s words yet echoed in her mind, and she’d hardly had time to think about the whole strange interview since it took place.

Be of two minds but one heart. The diviner had looked straight inside her and seen the frustration building there. She missed the freedom of working alone, of deciding for herself the best course of action. She was tired of making nice with her companions, tired of compromising. Especially with Corran.

The others were tolerable. Durwyn didn’t have the confidence to voice his opinion very often. Jarial, conscious of his status as the newcomer, didn’t throw his weight around much either. Ghleanna usually had good ideas, and Corran respected the sorceress enough to listen to them. If only he’d show her, Kestrel, the same courtesy.

She raised her arms above her head and stretched. At times, the others’ company seemed almost physically confining. When this quest was over—if she lived to see its end—she’d be on her own once more. She’d make her own choices again, do things her way. When she built up her fortune, when she finally had that easy life she craved, she’d be the one telling other people what to do.

Rustling near the cots interrupted her musing. Light footsteps followed, bringing Ghleanna into view. “May I join you?”

Kestrel didn’t object. “Can’t sleep?”

“Nay. My mind swirls with too many thoughts.” The mage sat down cross-legged beside her.

She studied the half-elf. Ghleanna was a beautiful woman, combining the best features of her mixed heritage. The firelight glinted off the gold specks in her eyes and the highlights in her unbound golden hair. Kestrel could see the appeal the sorceress would hold for Athan, or any man for that matter. She wondered again if Ghleanna was romantically involved with the famed warrior. “Does Athan occupy some of those thoughts?” she asked boldly.

Ghleanna did not answer immediately, instead pushing a lock of hair behind one delicate, pointed ear. “Aye,” she finally admitted, bringing her knees up and hugging them to her chest. “Athan is very dear to me. News of his death would wound me deeply, but this not knowing... I think sometimes it is worse.”

Though Ghleanna had confirmed her suspicions, Kestrel floundered for a response. Since Quinn’s death she’d made a priority of keeping others at a distance. She’d never had the need—or felt the urge—to offer words of support to anyone on any occasion. A minute lapsed, then two, until a reply no longer seemed necessary.

“The man who raised you—” Ghleanna began tentatively, breaking her gaze away from the fire to regard Kestrel. “Was he a good man?”

“He was.” She grinned, more to herself than Ghleanna. “Not an honest man, mind you, but a good man.”

“Does he yet live?”

Her grin faded. “Quinn died in a tavern brawl when I was twelve. Slipped an ace up his sleeve once too often.” She glanced toward the cots, where the others all seemed to have dozed off at last. “I can only imagine what Lord D’Arcey would think about that.”

Ghleanna flashed her a conspiratorial smile. “He shan’t hear of it from me.”

“Thanks.” They lapsed into silence again. Kestrel felt as if she ought to return the other woman’s show of interest. “What about your folks?” She prepared to sit through the tale of some aristocratic elven or human house—perhaps both.

“I never knew my parents, either,” the half-elf said softly. “My mother died birthing me, and my father—well, he’d gone back to his human wife and son before I was born.” Ghleanna returned her gaze to the fire, apparently finding it easier to avoid eye contact when talking about herself. “My uncle took me into his household, but he resented a ‘half-breed’ growing up alongside his elven children. ’Twas not until my human brother found me—after our father had died—that I felt I truly had a family.”

Kestrel listened with surprise. She’d always found the ways of wizards so mysterious that she never considered the real, flesh-and-blood people beneath the robes. She’d assumed the half-elf boasted a pedigree similar to Corran’s, one full of wealthy family members eager to pay for her magical training or anything else she desired. The rogue had never imagined Ghleanna’s background could have a thing in common with her own.

The sorceress yawned and rose. “Dawn shall be upon us all too quickly, I think. Will you retire as well?”

“Soon,” Kestrel answered. Ghleanna had given her much to ponder.

At first light, the party set out for the southwest ruins. They entered the ghost shrine to hear Anorrweyn’s spirit still repeating her lonely, sorrowful call.

“Where are the followers of Mystra?” The cry seemed to echo off the intangible walls.

Faeril stepped forward, holding out the medallion she wore around her neck. “Here, priestess! Mystra’s faithful still walk this earth. I am Faeril, but one of Our Lady’s many servants.”

Goosebumps prickled Kestrel’s arms as she waited to see whether the elven spirit would respond. The room fell unnaturally silent. No sounds from outside seemed to penetrate the spectral building, and those who stood within scarcely dared to breathe.

A faint scent stole into the air. Kestrel inhaled the musky perfume, searching her mind to identify the familiar fragrance. Gardenias.

Moments later, the slender figure of a woman appeared—at first dim and wavering, then brighter and steadier. A small nose, high cheekbones and a soft mouth set off the large turquoise eyes that dominated her heart-shaped face. Long, dark tresses cascaded over her shoulders, disappearing behind the silky fabric of her close-fitting green gown. Though an emerald ferronniere crowned her forehead, in truth Anorrweyn Evensong needed no adornment.

Kestrel absently ran her fingers through her short, boyish locks. The priestess’s understated elegance made the rogue suddenly self-conscious of her own rough-and-tumble appearance. Kestrel knew that while she might have the dexterity of a cat, she’d never possess one-tenth Anorrweyn’s grace. In the past, women like this gentle elf made her feel defensive, but somehow this spirit struck a chord in her.

“Faeril.” The elven spirit smiled and extended her hand toward the cleric. Her fingertips came within inches of Faeril’s face but did not touch it. “You are truly a daughter of Mystra?”

“Yes, priestess. Your sect has suffered hardship but yet survives.”

“I had feared the spinning centuries had put an end to Our Lady’s worship.” Anorrweyn’s gaze swept the group. “These are your companions?”

“Yes, priestess.”

The spirit then studied the party one member at a time, briefly assessing each person as Faeril made introductions. When Anorrweyn’s eyes met Kestrel’s, the thief felt warmth and peace pass through her. “You are the heroes who freed the remains of my temple from the evil creatures who laid claim to it.” Anorrweyn’s voice had lost its melancholy timbre, and its tones now fell soft as spring rain. “How may I aid you in return? Speak quickly—my foothold in your time is light.”

Corran removed his helm and genuflected before her. “The Mythal is in jeopardy, priestess. Evildoers have corrupted its magic and harnessed its power for their own diabolical ends.”

“Yes, I feel them, even through the years. They have raised an abomination under the very seat of the coronal, an abomination that cracks stone and earth in its hunger.” She extended her hand toward the paladin. “Rise, holy knight.”

Corran obeyed. Though his large form physically dwarfed the priestess, it was she who exuded more presence. “They plan to overtake first Myth Drannor and then all Faerûn,” Corran continued, “raising a dracolich to ultimate dominion over all.”

If it was possible for a bloodless, incorporeal being to pale, Anorrweyn Evensong did so. “They cannot be allowed to succeed!”

“We have made it our mission to stop them,” Ghleanna said. “But we have only an imperfect understanding of the Mythal. We come to you seeking knowledge.”

“I will gladly share all I have. Please, sit and rest as the Mythal’s tale is one that spans centuries. I will tell as much as I can before my spirit slips back into the past.” She gestured toward several benches that looked as if they’d been literally tossed into the corner. Broken legs and blocks of stone lay scattered around them. “I regret I cannot offer you better hospitality, but I believe you may find an intact seat or two in that pile.”

They found three benches that appeared sound enough to support the weight of six people. Corran and Durwyn positioned them in a half-circle. Kestrel and the others sat down—all except Durwyn, who repeatedly glanced over his shoulder at the entrance. “I don’t want any more nagas to surprise us,” he said finally. “I’ll stand guard and listen from the door.”

The fighter’s absence left an empty space beside Kestrel. To her surprise, the ghost herself took that seat. Had Caalenfaire come so close, Kestrel would have jumped like a rabbit but somehow she felt calm in Anorrweyn’s presence. A fleeting look of envy passed over Faeril’s features at Kestrel’s proximity to Anorrweyn, but the cleric’s own seat actually offered a better view of the priestess.

“The Mythal was woven in the Year of Soaring Stars,” the spirit began. “The city’s greatest wizards, most of them elves, came together to lay the Mythal. Working cooperatively, they wove a spell greater than the sum of its casters. Each chose a special power to infuse into the mantle, and each gave some of his or her life to engender it.” The ghostly elf turned to Corran. “You wish to speak?”

Anorrweyn’s perceptiveness impressed Kestrel—the priestess had not even been looking at him directly. “Yes,” Corran said, appearing startled himself. “What kind of powers?”

“All kinds. Protections preventing certain types of magic from being used within the city. Interdicts to prevent undesirable races—such as drow, orcs, and goblins—from entering the city. The creation of amenities such as blueglow moss for the injured and a featherfall effect for the clumsy. These are but a few.” The elven priestess glanced at the others as if checking whether more questions were forthcoming. Seeing no such indication, she continued. “The chief caster, Mythanthor, sacrificed his life to bring the Mythal into being. The weaving process consumed him body and soul. This sacrifice he made willingly, that by his death the Mythal and his beloved city would live.”

Kestrel tried to imagine the fierce and selfless dedication of the wizard Mythanthor but found she could not. She’d never believed in anything strongly enough to give her life for it, and she doubted she ever would.

“The City of Song knew centuries of glory under the mantle of the Weave,” Anorrweyn continued. “Ah, the beauty of those times... the Serpentspires, the Glim-gardens... We floated on the air! But then the Armies of Darkness came.” Anorrweyn’s image flickered. “I hear their thunder, see their fire... .”

Faeril started forward. “Priestess?”

Anorrweyn hovered between planes, phasing in and out of the present. “My spirit slides back to those wicked days even as I tell their tale.” Her image solidified but the priestess swayed. “The drums. Can you hear the drums?” She closed her eyes, frowning in concentration. “No, of course you cannot. I must tighten my grip on the present. Show me your medallion again, daughter.”

Faeril knelt before the priestess and laid the amulet at her feet. The wavering ceased for a time. The cleric remained on her knees. “Prithee continue priestess, if you can.”

Anorrweyn raised her hand to her temples, forcing herself to focus. “The Weeping Wars that ruined Myth Drannor damaged the Mythal as well. Many of its powers were lost or weakened. The surviving city leaders met in secret to devise a way to save the Mythal from further decay. After years of study and debate, they decided to create an artifact now known as the Gem of the Weave. Through this gem, the Mythal could be monitored and, as necessary, tuned. One person alone would be forever entrusted with the power and responsibility of using the gem to protect and maintain the Mythal.

“Our city engineer, Harldain Ironbar, secured an appropriate gem—a perfect sapphire—and the city’s most powerful spellcasters created the Incantation of the Weave to bind the sapphire to the Mythal. But a communicant was needed, a person who would bind his or her spirit to the gem. Once again, a far-seeing elf came forward to sacrifice his life to protect what remained of this great city. Miroden Silverblade, a lord of House Ammath, willingly ended his mortal existence to spend eternity as a baelnorn—an immortal guardian. Now known simply as the Protector, he holds safe the Sapphire of the Weave, which he uses to commune with and tune the Mythal.”

“It seems we should meet this Protector,” Corran said.

Kestrel did not relish the thought of encountering yet another ghost. Anorrweyn wasn’t so bad—the rogue might have forgotten the priestess was a spirit at all were it not for her translucence and her tentative hold on the present. However, the image of Caalenfaire in his scrying chair still gave her the shudders.

Ghleanna nodded in response to Corran’s statement. “How well do you know the baelnorn?” she asked Anorrweyn. “If we seek help from him, will he aid us?”

“I know he would,” the priestess responded. “Guarding the Mythal is his whole reason for being. Miroden Silverblade can use the gem to undo the corruption of the Mythal. That should help you drive out the evil that has invaded Myth Drannor.”

“Can you take us to him?” Jarial asked.

“Alas, I cannot.” A note of sorrow crept into the spirit’s voice. “Once my spirit walked freely on this plane to continue My Lady’s work. But vandals stole my skull from its resting place beneath this shrine. I cannot leave this ghostly building until it is returned. Forsooth, I can scarcely cling to the present.” Her image flickered again, disappearing for longer beats of time than before. “Eltargrim—Coronal—where are you? Shall the Tel’Quessir drown uncaptained in this dark sea?”

Kestrel found herself feeling sympathy for the trapped spirit: Anorrweyn’s consciousness had survived her death only to see her mortal remains scattered about like so much litter. How horrible—to have pieces of one’s body dispersed over ruins, while one’s consciousness forever flitted between centuries.

“No, no—I must hold to the living moment a while longer.” The priestess clawed at the air, fighting a temporal battle they could not witness. “Night falls again on the eve of my death. The spellfire comes. Listen, before I am caught in its blaze once more... .Seek out the baelnorn yourselves. He lives deep below Myth Drannor’s surface, in the catacombs beneath Castle Cormanthor. Harldain Ironbar, whose spirit yet haunts the Onaglym, can help you gain access to the catacombs. Once inside, the baelnorn’s lair is marked with the Rune of the Protector.” She traced the symbol in the air. To reach him, you must know the Word of Safekeeping: Fhaormiir.”

Corran rose and bowed once more. “We thank you for your aid, Anorrweyn Evensong. I but wish we could do more to help you.”

“You can...” Anorrweyn’s image flickered, disappearing for so long that Kestrel thought she would not return. Nonetheless, the strong-willed spirit fought her way back to the present one more time. “I believe my graverobbers were minions of a lich who dwelt within the catacombs. They may have taken their prize there. If you should happen upon my skull—”

“Of course,” Corran said.

“I could then stand with both feet in this time. I could help you further.” Anorrweyn smiled, the first smile they had seen from her. The expression lit her whole face with an angelic glow, sparking a response in Kestrel that caught the rogue by surprise. She wanted to aid the ghostly priestess, wanted to help this gentle, noble spirit obtain some peace as she faced eternity trapped on this earth.

“I promise you, priestess, we will do all we can,” Kestrel said solemnly. “It would be our privilege to restore your skull to its sacred resting place.”

The vow—the first words Kestrel had spoken since Anorrweyn appeared—pleased the priestess. Corran looked at her in astonishment, approval dawning in his eyes.

Kestrel rose and turned away from the paladin’s gaze, intending to join Durwyn at the entrance. She didn’t need Corran D’Arcey’s approval, or anyone else’s for that matter. Helping Anorrweyn just felt like the right thing to do.

A small cry from Faeril arrested her attention. Anorrweyn’s form was fading from view, wavering and shimmering as it dimmed.

“Be not afraid, daughter,” the priestess said. “I must leave you now. But return with my skull and I shall be stronger.” Anorrweyn Evensong was but a faint outline now, rapidly disappearing altogether. “Trumpets cry... the tide rushes in... .Summon the armathors!”

With that, the elven spirit was gone. The scent of gardenias lingered.

CHAPTER NINE

The House of Gems resembled nothing so much as the dwarves who had raised it. Though the Onaglym was a large two-towered building, its stone construction lent it a dense, compact appearance, giving Kestrel the impression that nothing could ever budge—or even mar—the dwarven stronghold. Despite the wars that had rocked the rest of Myth Drannor, the fortress stood solid and strong, undaunted by the changes wrought upon the city around it.

Here they would find Harldain Ironbar, or so Caalenfaire had said. As both the diviner and Anorrweyn had mentioned the dwarven spirit—did all the ghosts in this town know each other?—visiting him seemed the next logical step of their mission. Besides, they needed to learn from Harldain how to enter the catacombs if they ever hoped to meet the Protector or locate Anorrweyn’s skull.

The Onaglym’s exterior betrayed no sign of cult sorcerers still occupying its Round Tower. In fact, with the exception of the cultists, the rest of the city’s evil denizens seemed to give the fortress a wide berth. The dwarven meeting hall appeared to have escaped the looting and lairing that characterized most of Myth Drannor’s surface buildings. After the trap the party had encountered while trying to reach the Room of Words, Kestrel could guess why.

They found the main door open, a fact that bothered Kestrel almost as much as the eerie rhythm, like a giant heartbeat, coming from within. Pa-pum. Pa-pum. It was an ominous greeting, to say the least. While the others speculated about the source of the faint noise, she spent twenty minutes searching the doorway for traps. Finally Corran, eager to investigate, simply walked through the entrance. He turned around, unscathed. “Sometimes a lucky break is just a lucky break, Kestrel.”

She rolled her eyes. Sometimes. Not often. And based on previous experience, not in this fortress. Kestrel hung back as the others brushed past her into a small courtyard containing the statue of some long-forgotten dwarven hero. An archway led to a larger, open area beyond dotted with more statues.

Pa-pum. Pa-pum.

She scanned the walls, floor, and ceiling once again. Dwarves would not leave the front door—even the front door of a building they were abandoning as they fled the city—hanging open. The last one out would have closed the door and extinguished the lights. There had to be something she wasn’t seeing.

Pa-pum. Pa-pum.

Corran cast an impatient glance her way. “Are you coming or not?”

Still suspicious, she relented. “Coming.”

The moment she stepped through the doorway, an iron door clanged down behind her. Damn it all! How had she missed that? She let fly a stream of expletives against crafty dwarven engineers. “Lucky break, my arse! I told you it was too easy to get in here!” Before her companions could answer, she turned her back on them to study the iron door. She had a feeling they would be using a different exit.

Pa-pum. Pa-pum.

“Kestrel, we’re inside now.” Corran’s voice grated on her nerves. “Let’s find Harldain—I’m sure he can tell us how to get out.”

“Just give me a minute!” she snapped. Corran was probably right, but the undiscovered trap had bruised her pride.

“Suit yourself. We’re going on ahead.”

“You do that.” Arrogant, insufferable jerk... She heard him leave, heard the others following, all except Durwyn, whose presence she yet sensed, though some feet away. He waited quietly as she continued to examine the door.

Pa-pum. Pa-pum.

Less than a minute later, his voice broke the stillness. “Uh, Kestrel?” Durwyn spoke softly, probably afraid of irritating her further.

She tried to tamp down her annoyance and keep her tone even. “Yes, Durwyn?” From behind, she heard the warrior rattling around. He was closer than she’d thought. Good grief—was he deliberately scraping his armor across the stone floor? She tried to block out the noise and concentrate on her task, running her hand along the smooth iron door.

Pa-pum. Pa-pum.

“I’d turn around if I were you.”

A sense of dread shot through her. She spun on her heel to face him.

And found herself looking straight into the eyes of a dwarf.

The statue in the center of the courtyard had come to life. The bearded champion, armed with a two-handed axe, stood between her and Durwyn. The dwarf stared at her, his expression inscrutable. She stared back as her mind raced. Should she slowly circle toward Durwyn? Say something to the animated statue?

Pa-pum. Pa-pum.

The dwarf winked. Mischief somehow twinkled in his cold stone eyes. Kestrel released the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding and allowed the muscles in her shoulders to relax.

He leaped off the pedestal to attack.

The stone guardian swung his weapon in a wide arc meant to catch Kestrel in the midriff. Instinctively, she dropped to the floor and rolled to one side. The blade struck the door with a deafening clang! that left a dent in the iron.

She paled at the display of strength. A single blow from the dwarf could crush even Durwyn or cleave her in half. He came at her again, raising the axe high in the air this time.

She rolled once more, then jumped to her feet. The dwarf’s axe struck the floor, sending rock chips flying. The ring of steel on stone echoed off the walls.

Pa-pum, pa-pum. The mysterious thumping continued, but her own heart beat double time. She noted that the statue’s movements, though deliberate, were slow. Durwyn had moved forward to aid her, but she grabbed his arm instead. “Let’s find the others!” She tugged on his hand, urging the big man to abandon the fight. If the dwarf followed them, at least they could face him with help.

They darted through the archway—only to discover an even worse scene. Corran, Faeril, and the two sorcerers were locked in combat with three more animated statues, and other figures nearby seemed to be stirring to life. Kestrel’s gaze swept the fortress ward. At least two dozen dwarven sculptures were scattered about the grounds. They couldn’t possibly fight them all.

Pa-pum. Pa-pum.

Across the embankment, another iron door stood open. If they could reach it and close it behind them, they would be safe from the statues—though with that strange, perpetual thumping noise ringing off the walls, who knew what lay on the other side? Kestrel heard the first dwarf catching up to them, and a swing from one of the other statues had just narrowly missed Corran’s head. It was a chance they would have to take.

“There are too many statues!” she shouted, hoping the others would hear her over the sounds of combat. “We have to outrun them!” The sorcerers were launching their magical volleys from a distance. They should have no trouble dropping their attack to flee. Corran and Faeril, on the other hand, might require aid to disengage from combat.

“I’ve never retreated from a battle,” Corran declared, parrying another blow. Kestrel was surprised his warhammer hadn’t snapped under the force of the statue’s strike.

Anger welled within her. Would Corran rather die than listen to her? Durwyn nearly jerked her off her feet as an axe whistled past her ear—the first dwarf had caught up to them. The blow struck a granite fountain, sending huge chunks of rock scudding across the ground.

“Abandon this one!” Durwyn called out. He pushed her forward, turning around to guard their backs. “Go, Kestrel! Lead the way. I’ll be right behind you.”

Would the others follow? She had no time to speculate. With a quick survey and a split-second decision, she darted across the ward.

Pa-pum. Pa-pum.

Durwyn shadowed her steps. He paused, however, to pick up a large chunk of granite, which he launched at the legs of Faeril’s opponent. The statue tottered, ceasing its offensive just long enough for the cleric to break free of combat and join the retreat. Ghleanna and Jarial also followed.

They had to dodge the blows of several already-animated statues before reaching terrain where no guardians yet stirred. Kestrel steered as far as possible from statues that had not yet awakened, hoping to minimize the number of attackers. The likenesses were positioned, however, so that no intruder could bypass them all. Every hundred paces or so they awakened another one.

Pa-pum. Pa-pum. The thumping grew louder as they traversed the ward. Whatever was making that noise, they were running toward it.

At last, they reached the second iron door. As they ducked inside, Kestrel quickly scanned the interior for the source of the thumping sound. Spotting nothing, she turned around to see whether Corran had joined them.

“Damn him!” She could have spat nails. The paladin remained behind, stubbornly trying to hold his ground. Before she could stop him, Durwyn headed back to aid Corran. “Durwyn! No!”

The fighter could not return the way they had come, for by now the statues Kestrel’s party had awakened were fully animated. He was forced to chose a less direct path, rousing new guardians in the process. He reached the beleaguered paladin just in time to block a strike that would have hit Corran from behind.

Damn Corran D’Arcey to the Abyss! His arrogance now endangered Durwyn as well. The statues were closing in on them—and those that weren’t headed toward the door where Kestrel and the others stood watching.

Pa-pum. Pa-pum.

Durwyn shouted at his comrade, but the distance, the everpresent heartbeat, and the sounds of the stone dwarves’ laborious movements prevented Kestrel from making out the words. Whatever he said, however, seemed to sink through Corran’s thick skull. The two began to retreat, Durwyn leading them along a circuitous route past the last of the sleeping statues. A dozen stone dwarves approached from all sides.

Ghleanna muttered something. Kestrel, her attention divided between Durwyn’s plight and the half-dozen statues marching her own way, missed what she said and asked her to repeat it. When she glanced at the sorceress, however, she realized Ghleanna was casting a spell.

A huge mass of sticky strands suddenly draped itself over most of the dwarves chasing Durwyn and Corran. The enormous spider web gummed up the statues’ movements, impeding their pursuit. At the same time Jarial uttered a command of his own at the dwarves approaching the door. Their advance instantly slowed to a rate that would have looked comic had the danger they posed not been so great.

The two fighters still had to dodge the blows of four unaffected statues that blocked their path. As they darted past, one of the dwarves landed a strike on Durwyn’s left arm, nearly severing the limb. The warrior cried out and gripped his arm to his side, but kept moving.

Pa-pum. Pa-pum.

Kestrel forced herself to watch their final approach but could not look at Durwyn’s face. The agony she’d seen flash across it had been so intense it left her own knees weak. Blood streamed down his side.

Anger at Corran battled fear for her friend. Her friend. She hadn’t thought of Durwyn that way until this moment, but she’d probably be dead right now if he hadn’t stayed behind in the courtyard waiting for her. He’d been a faithful companion to her, to them all—which was why he was now injured. She regretted every unkind or impatient thought she’d ever had toward him.

The two made it to the door just as Jarial’s spell wore off the nearest dwarves. Kestrel, Jarial, and Ghleanna swung shut the heavy door while Faeril immediately attended Durwyn. “Sit down,” she said calmly, helping him to the ground.

Pa-pum. Pa-pum. With the door closed, the thumping echoed louder. Kestrel tried to block it from her mind as she knelt beside the injured warrior. Durwyn’s face was pale—he’d already lost a lot of blood. His eyes held the steely look of someone trying to mask suffering.

She’d never felt this scared for someone else, not since Quinn had died. Instinctively, she reached for his good hand and forced herself to give him a wobbly smile. “We’re lucky Faeril is with us. You’re going to be fine.” Eyes never leaving his face, she said to Faeril, “Tell me how to help you.”

“Just keep doing what you’re doing,” the elf said gently, beginning her prayer of healing.

Behind her, Kestrel heard Corran approach. He cleared his throat. “May I assist?”

She looked up at him, her face hot. “I think you’ve done quite enough already.” She had much more to say, but she didn’t want to make a scene in front of Durwyn.

Remorse flickered across the paladin’s features. “Perhaps I have,” he said more to himself than to her. She wished he would just go away, but he remained, watching Faeril’s ministrations.

Kestrel talked to Durwyn quietly while the cleric tended to him. The warrior was weak but lucid. “Thank you for watching my back earlier, in the courtyard,” she said.

“I—” He paused as if choosing his words. “I know that I’m not the smartest guy in the world. I’m good with an axe, but I’m not so good at figuring things out. So when I find people smarter than me, I trust them to do most of the thinking. You’ve been right about a lot of things so far, Kestrel. When you said there was a trap, I believed you.”

Durwyn’s words heartened her. She hadn’t been shouting into the wind this whole time, struggling in vain to be heard. Someone had been paying attention.

When Faeril finished, Durwyn’s arm was fully healed. He rested awhile on the floor as the remainder of the party assessed their surroundings. They stood inside the main building of the fortress, in a great hall with numerous wooden tables, benches, and other furnishings all still in excellent condition. Even the tapestries on the walls, colorful depictions of dwarven artisans engaged in their crafts, seemed unaffected by age.

At the opposite end of the hall, two staircases led to the second floor. The periodic thumping sound, louder in Kestrel’s ears now that Durwyn was out of danger, resonated off the stone walls. It repeated every minute or so, like the heartbeat of a man who refused to die. The noise seemed to come from above.

Pa-pum. Pa-pum.

They climbed the stairs to find a single large room—and Harldain Ironbar. Or so they assumed. A dwarven spirit occupied the center of the chamber. The middle-aged lord had apparently been a figure of some standing in Myth Drannor, judging from his thick fur cloak, ringed fingers, and the chain of office around his neck.

“I’d say that’s Harldain, all right,” Kestrel said. “But what’s the matter with him?” The dwarf stood transfixed, his translucent image unmoving even under the party’s scrutiny.

Ghleanna held two fingers up to the ghost’s face, gliding them back and forth as she watched his eyes. When she moved her fingers quickly, the eyes remained still. But when she moved them slowly, his pupils followed the movement. “He seems to be in a state of arrested animation,” she said. “He can’t move, but I’ll bet he can hear us.”

“Y... y... yes,” the ghost said. Kestrel almost missed the single word, as the thumping noise had repeated at the same instant. The heartbeat sound was still louder up here and seemed to come from the other side of a door in the southwest corner of the room.

“He can speak!” Corran moved to stand directly before the spirit. “Are you Harldain Ironbar?”

No answer. The paladin repeated his question but still got no response.

“Let’s try another question,” Jarial said. Corran stepped aside so the sorcerer could face the spirit. “Anorrweyn Evensong and Caalenfaire sent us,” Jarial told the ghost. “Do you know them?’’

Still no response.

Kestrel thought they needed to get to the point. “How can we free you?” There would be enough time for other questions once the spirit could talk easily.

“P... u... mp.”

“What did he say?” Ghleanna asked. His answer had coincided with the thumping noise again.

“It sounded like pump.” Kestrel looked around the room. “But I don’t see anything in here that looks like a—”

“Maybe he said thump,” Corran said. “Perhaps that thumping sound has something to do with this.”

Kestrel knew she’d heard a “p” sound, not a “th,” but pointing that out to the paladin would require actually speaking to him. Still nursing her anger over Corran’s pigheaded endangerment of Durwyn, she let his suggestion pass without comment. Besides, she had no better idea to offer.

Corran tried the southwest door and found it unlocked. When he opened it the heartbeat sound repeated, the strongest they’d heard it yet. “This way.”

The door exited onto a small balcony with a narrow stairway leading up to the rooftop. They trotted along the fortress’s battlements, following the rhythmic thumping noise, until they reached a similar staircase heading down. The steps deposited them in the stronghold’s pumphouse, where the mechanical pump struggled to perform its duty. The slow pa-pum was the sound of the device fighting to draw water from the Onaglym’s ancient cistern, which lay in a courtyard beyond.

“I knew he said pump,” Kestrel muttered under her breath.

Ghleanna wrinkled her nose. “What’s that smell?” A putrid odor filled the air, as of rotting garbage. Or decaying flesh.

Kestrel raised her guard, remembering the zombies that seemed to appear whenever they’d previously detected such a stench. She heard no telltale shuffling of animated corpses, only the slow, laborious sound of the pump.

Faeril walked to the arched doorway that opened into the courtyard. “It seems to be emanating from—Oh, Lady of Mysteries, preserve us!”

The others rushed over. On the far side of the courtyard, the desiccated body of a human female hung impaled on a spiked pole. The former fighter had been disemboweled. In place of her organs nested a large membranous sac that pulsed and squirmed.

Kestrel’s gorge rose. Anorrweyn’s missing skull had seemed bad, but this... Was it the fate of all women in this city to have their remains defiled? She had to turn her head away from the sight. It was then that she noticed the unnatural color of the water in the cistern. The reservoir, which should have held clear rainwater, instead bubbled with murky brownish liquid. The water must have become polluted somehow through the centuries.

Or corrupted recently. Kestrel noted an amber cast to the fluid and closed her eyes against the realization dawning on her. They had found another spawn pool.

When she opened her eyes, despite her fervent wishes the abomination remained. “Uh, guys—”

“I just noticed it, too,” Ghleanna said.

Corran and Faeril, meanwhile, had approached the corpse. Faeril gestured toward an insignia on the remains of the body’s tattered clothing. “Sisters of the Silver Fire,” she said. “This woman was a holy warrior dedicated to Mystra.”

“Of your sect?” Corran asked.

“No, another, but I feel the loss as keenly.” She studied the writhing sac in the fallen warrior’s body cavity. “She appears to be infested by the eggs of some loathsome creature—and I suspect they are hatching. Jarial? Ghleanna?”

The sorcerers joined them. Kestrel and Durwyn followed a little behind. They heard Faeril say sadly, “I’d prefer a nobler death rite, but we haven’t time.”

The group stood back. Faeril raised her voice in prayer as Jarial hurled a ball of fire at the corpse. The blast incinerated both the fighter and the vile, squirming egg sac. When the last flames sputtered out, the sorcerer waved his hand over the ashes. A light breeze swirled them into a funnel, dispersing the ashes into the wind.

Kestrel watched the dust blow away, then turned her attention back to the pool. The insidious amber liquid was gone. Pure water once again filled the cistern. The pump resumed its normal pace, the mechanism sounding almost eager to get back to work.

At the edge of the reservoir lay the dead fighter’s weapon, a gleaming sword with a red tinge to the steel.

Corran picked it up and handed it to Faeril. “Perhaps you can use it to avenge her death.”

“With Mystra’s aid, I shall.”

They returned to the main fortress, where a liberated Harldain Ironbar awaited them. As they entered his chamber, the dwarf met them with a ghostly battle-axe in hand. “Identify yerselves!”

The paladin stepped forward, hands raised to show his peaceful intentions. “I am Corran D’Arcey. These are my companions Ghleanna, Jarial, Durwyn, Faeril, and Kestrel. We are come to free Myth Drannor of the evil that has overtaken it.”

“So yer not part of that dragon cult?”

“Nay! In fact we are sworn to defeat them,” Faeril said.

Harldain lowered his axe but continued to regard them suspiciously. Corran removed his helm and tucked it under his arm to allow the dwarf a clear look at his face. Following his lead, Durwyn did likewise. Harldain seemed to appreciate the gesture and studied his unexpected visitors.

“The priestess Anorrweyn Evensong advised us to seek your counsel,” said Corran. “So did the diviner Caalenfaire.”

“So you said earlier.” Harldain rested the axe head on the floor and leaned on the shaft as if it were a cane. “Friends of yers, are they? Anorrweyn’s a gentle soul, but that Caalenfaire—he gave me the shivers even before he was dead. The old sorcerer’s never done me a bad turn, though, so I reckon if he and Anorrweyn are on yer side, then yer on mine. ’Bout time someone came to drive those dragon-lovin’ vermin out of my city.” He stroked his beard thoughtfully. “So, the priestess and the fortune-teller have teamed up, have they? Things must have gotten pretty bad while I was frozen there. I think that nasty water cloggin’ the pump had somethin’ to with it. Seems like polluted pools are poppin’ up everywhere a glimmer of good remains in this city. Anyway, what have they sent you to talk to me about?”

“We need access to the catacombs,” Corran said.

“Do you, now? Well, that’s a simple enough matter to help you with. But what are they sendin’ you down there for?”

“To find the Protector. We need to talk to him about the Mythal.”

Some of the fire left Harldain’s eyes. He let out a deep sigh. “They’ve gone and done it, haven’t they? Those dragon worshipers, they’ve done somethin’ to the Mythal.” He shook his head sadly. “I’d always hoped that somehow we could use the Mythal to restore the City of Song to its former glory. But now...”

“You may yet,” Ghleanna said gently. “If we act quickly to defeat the cult. We need your help.”

Harldain nodded. “Yes, of course. Anything I can do.” He stroked his beard again. “Dark elves have infiltrated much of the first catacomb level, so don’t even try to use the main entrance—I’ll send you a secret way. You’ll have to face enough of ’em just to move deeper inside.”

He crossed the room and pointed to one of the bricks in the wall. “That block is loose. Pull it out.” Corran pried out the stone, revealing a hidden cubbyhole. “Now reach inside and get the stone that’s in there. The key—take the key out, too. It’s a passkey. It’ll disable the statues downstairs, make it easier for you to leave.”

Corran withdrew the key and a gem similar in appearance to the one set in the Ring of Calling. The gem sparkled with inner white light.

“That’s a starstone,” Harldain said. “Used to be that lots of folks in Myth Drannor had at least one. The starstones were set in different pieces of jewelry. When the wearer stood in specific locations, magical gates opened to different parts of the city. Helped a body get around faster.”

Ghleanna extended her hand so Harldain could see the Ring of Calling. “Is this a starstone?”

“It is, indeed,” the spirit confirmed. “That’s one of the more common starstones. It got folks to the City Heights from various parts of town.” Harldain gestured toward the sparkling rock Corran held. “That’s a rarer stone. Belongs in a neckpiece called the Wizard’s Torc. Sorcerers of the Speculum used the torc to open a secret entrance from the amphitheater to the catacombs. Restore the starstone to the Wizard’s Torc and wear it while standin’ on the theater floor—in the Circle of Ualair the Silent—and the door’ll open for you.”

Harldain’s expression grew troubled. “Of course, you have to find the torc first—last I heard, a dark naga in the dwarven dungeons had the thing.” He narrowed his brows at Jarial. “What’re you grinnin’ about?”

“You mean this torc?”

CHAPTER TEN

“Drow,” Kestrel whispered, squinting in the dim torchlight.

Ghleanna rolled her eyes. “Not more of them?”

“Afraid so.” Kestrel shared the mage’s sentiment This was the fourth such patrol they’d seen since entering the catacombs. The ebon-skinned, white-haired warriors seemed to swarm the undercity, their fierce war paint and lethally sharp halberds boldly declaring their right of occupation to anyone foolish enough to question their presence. Unlike the orogs Kestrel’s party had observed in the dwarven undercity, the drow were a close-mouthed people. No stray snatches of conversation had revealed their purpose in Myth Drannor.

“If we double back and take that other fork, perhaps we can bypass their encampment altogether,” Corran suggested.

Kestrel shrugged, unconvinced. So far they’d successfully avoided detection by the dark elves, but their luck couldn’t hold out forever. They’d been fortunate enough to escape serious combat with all the undead creatures wandering about. Corran and Faeril had managed to turn away most of the shadows and zombies, and the cleric had even destroyed the skeletons they’d come upon with a single holy word.

As much as Kestrel disliked facing undead beings, she dreaded an encounter with the dark elves more. The drow had a reputation for cruelty toward their enemies—who, from what Kestrel understood, comprised just about everyone not drow. Even the unliving gave them a wide berth, lairing in separate parts of the dungeons.

They retreated down the rough-hewn tunnel. Once, Kestrel would have considered these dense subterranean warrens well constructed, but they couldn’t help but suffer in comparison to the superior passages of the dwarves. Given their elven creators and their ancient age, however, the corridors and chambers remained in surprisingly good condition—from what she could see of them, anyway. The lighting was poor to say the least, with wispy flames barely clinging to widely spaced torches. She supposed they were lucky to have any light at all. Drow were known for their ability to see clearly in the dark, and the undead certainly hadn’t lit the brands. The torches must be for the benefit of another mortal race. The cultists?

Corran led the group around a bend. A fork they’d passed previously lay just a few hundred feet beyond. Suddenly, the paladin stopped short—but not before a band of drow in the intersection spotted the party. “Hold!” one of them cried. “If you value your wretched lives!”

“They’ve nowhere to go, Razherrt!” came a voice from behind them. “We heard their noisy clanking all the way down at our post.”

Beshaba’s bad breath! They were surrounded! Kestrel tensed, swearing silently at the Maid of Misfortune as she prepared to grab Loren’s Blade and hurl it in a single swift movement should the need arise. Corran’s hand rested on his sword hilt, while Durwyn gripped his axe more tightly. Faeril stood with hands on hips, her fingers inches from the hilt of her new sword.

“Humans. How such a primitive race has survived this long baffles the mind.” The dark elf Razherrt laughed humorlessly as he approached. Six other warriors accompanied him. All wore black leather armor emblazoned with the symbol of a phoenix rising toward a dark green moon. Similarly marked bracers on Razherrt’s arms set him apart from the others. Their patrol leader, Kestrel guessed.

The drow fighters pointed their halberds at Kestrel’s party, but Razherrt held his weapon upright as if unconcerned by the possibility of any sudden moves by the lowly adventurers. His gaze swept the party, rapidly assessing each member, lingering on Ghleanna. “A half-breed. I see the People continue slumming.”

The half-elf remained silent under the drow’s insults. Corran, regarding the patrol leader warily, removed his hand from his weapon to indicate peaceful intentions. “We seek only to pass through.”

A sneer crossed Razherrt’s chiseled features. “You presume too much, human. The House of Freth does not appreciate vermin trespassing through its territory.” As he spoke, he almost absently moved his hands in a series of gestures, as if he spoke in sign language.

“We did not realize the House of Freth laid claim to these halls.”

Razherrt studied Corran with an intensity that Kestrel thought would bore holes through the paladin’s forehead. The leader of the other patrol said something in a language Kestrel had never heard before. Whatever he said, the statement elicited a low chuckle from Razherrt, who responded with several quick hand signals. The waiting drow warriors raised their blades.

“You find me in a good mood today, human,” Razherrt said. “I deal with matters too important to waste time exterminating rodents. Get thee gone from my sight. No—better still, we shall escort you out of the Freth domain, so you do not ‘accidentally’ wander in again. Turn around.”

Corran hesitated, apparently reluctant to expose his back to the drow.

Razherrt lowered the point of his weapon until it touched Corran’s chin. “Are you hard of hearing or just simple? You have already trespassed on Freth territory—do not trespass on my patience.”

The paladin turned, the expression in his eyes instructing the others to do likewise. Kestrel had rarely found herself so happy to travel in the middle of a party—as far away as possible from the drow on either end.

“Lead us to the stairs,” Razherrt told the other patrol. “I don’t know where our friends were headed, but they’re going down now. We’ll see how they like strolling below.”

As they wended through the dungeons, they passed several more bands of drow at work clearing out various chambers. Apparently the House of Freth intended to stay for a while and make itself comfortable in Myth Drannor’s underworld. Dark elves threw debris—and any other items they considered valueless—into carts for dumping in other parts of the dungeon. On one such cart, piled high with refuse, a skull rested as if carelessly tossed there. Was it Kestrel’s imagination, or did a faint blue-white glow surround the skull?

Without warning, she was knocked to the floor from behind. Faeril sprawled on top of her.

“Get up, you sun-worshipping dog!” Razherrt kicked the cleric. “Are you too stupid to even walk?”

“I—I tripped.” She caught Kestrel’s gaze. The skull, Faeril mouthed before Razherrt gripped her wrist and jerked her to her feet.

So it was indeed Anorrweyn’s skull! Kestrel couldn’t guess how the cleric knew for certain, but at the moment she didn’t have time to care. The skull lay about eight feet away, and they wouldn’t be passing any closer. “My knee!” She rolled onto her side with a groan. “You landed on my knee, you bumbling fool!”

Faeril’s expression clouded with genuine contrition. “I am sorry! Here, let me—”

“Oh, save it!” Kestrel awkwardly climbed to her feet and stumbled toward the cart holding the skull.

Razherrt’s blade stopped her. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“To lean against that garbage cart, if you don’t mind.”

“Kestrel, watch your tongue. You insult our hosts by not seeking their permission,” Corran said. Was it a true rebuke, or had he also spotted the skull? “Pray overlook my companion’s rudeness, Razherrt. If you’ll let her pause a moment, I’m sure she’ll give you no more trouble.”

Kestrel balanced on one foot, as if she couldn’t bear to put weight on her right leg. Razherrt stared at her, undecided. Her heartbeat accelerated as nervous energy coursed through her veins. “My apologies, sir. You know that humans are weak. Pain clouds my judgment.”

She nearly choked on the sycophantic words, but they seemed to work. The drow raised the tip of his halberd. “A minute’s rest. No more.”

Kestrel stumbled to the cart and leaned against it, her fingers inches away from the skull. Anorrweyn’s remains seemed to radiate an aura of calm, removing the anxiety she’d felt. Now she needed but a few seconds’ distraction to snatch the skull from its disrespectful perch and drop it in a deep inside pocket of her cloak.

A series of chimes sounded across the room. All eyes turned in that direction—except Kestrel’s. One of the sorcerers must have figured out her ruse. If not, she’d take advantage of the diversion no matter its source.

“What’s that?” Razherrt glared first at Corran, then at the sorcerers. “Do you play games with us?”

“Perhaps it is a charm of the dungeons themselves,” Jarial said. “Magic long sheltered the city above. Why should that not hold true for the city below?”

Razherrt grunted. “Get moving, all of you.” He pointed at Kestrel. “You, too.”

Kestrel rejoined the party, remembering to hobble. The uneven movement helped hide the bulge in her cloak.

“Of all the insufferable—”

“We’re alive and unharmed,” Corran tossed over his shoulder. “And we retrieved Anorrweyn’s skull to boot. Just count your blessings, Kestrel.”

Kestrel found the paladin’s condescension almost as galling as the Freth’s arrogance. She simmered as they trod through the undercity’s second level in search of another stairway leading down. “Well, I’ve had enough drow attitude for one lifetime, I’ll tell you that. Primitive race, indeed! Razherrt can kiss my human—”

“Hush!” Faeril glanced around as if she’d heard something. “Did you—”

From out of nowhere, a huge ball of flame barreled down the corridor at them. Ghleanna immediately called out a command word and thrust her hand toward the accelerating flames. The blaze snuffed itself out, leaving only a few dying sparks scattered in the passageway—enough to illuminate the cult sorcerer on the other side.

Two drow bodyguards flanked the mage. As Corran and Durwyn moved to close in on the spellcaster, the dark elves immediately engaged them. The drow fought with mechanical precision, thrusting and parrying without so much as a grunt of exertion. Faeril tried to reach the sorcerer but wound up joining the melee instead, fighting by Corran’s side.

The dark elves seemed utterly devoted to protecting the cultist. They could not, however, prevent Ghleanna and Jarial’s magical attacks from reaching him. Kestrel decided to target the drow and leave the sorcerers to a spellcasting contest. She sent one dagger sailing toward each elven warrior.

Her aim held true. One blade struck its target in his side, the other hit Durwyn’s opponent in his chest. Neither warrior cried out. She followed the double strike with Loren’s Blade, hitting the first dark elf a second time. The dagger wounds did not seem to slow him down.

Kestrel had never seen combatants so fierce. Despite their injuries, the drow wielded their halberds with relentless vigor. The length of the weapon gave them an advantage over Durwyn’s axe and the holy warriors’ swords. Kestrel sucked in her breath. How could she fare any better with her club?

Durwyn’s opponent backed him against a wall. Kestrel reached for her club, extended it with a flick of her wrist then advanced on the dark elf. She managed to execute one hard hit to the drow’s shoulder before he turned to engage her. Even with two-on-one odds, Kestrel felt at a disadvantage.

Meanwhile, flashes of light signaled the magical battle unfolding between the allied sorcerers and the cultist. Parrying the drow’s blows, Kestrel could not spare even a glance to see who dominated that contest. Please Mystra, let it be Jarial and Ghleanna!

Suddenly, Kestrel’s opponent collapsed to the floor. She looked up to see that the other drow had also fallen. The cult sorcerer lay with one of Jarial’s acid arrows embedded between his eyes.

“As soon as the cultist fell, so did the drow,” Jarial responded to the question in her eyes.

Durwyn prodded his former opponent with one foot. The body rolled over from the warrior’s force, but otherwise did not stir. “He’s dead. Just like that.”

Faeril shook her head. “No, not ‘just like that.’ Look at these dagger wounds—there’s no blood. I suspect these drow have been dead for some time.”

“Soulless,” Corran said. “Like the orogs.”

Kestrel shuddered. Now that she had leisure to examine these dark elves more closely, they did look paler than Razherrt and his party had. They also bore a different emblem on their armor, two yellow chevrons bisecting eight red dots. She pointed to the symbol. “Do you think that’s significant?”

“I suspect it indicates their House affiliation,” Ghleanna said. “I noticed that Razherrt brushed his fingertips over his symbol whenever he mentioned the House of Freth.”

“I guess these two belong to the House of Death,” Kestrel quipped. No one laughed. Even to her own ears, the joke didn’t seem funny. Only the gods knew how many legions of enthralled drow and orogs she and her companions might have to face before they completed their quest—if they ever did.

The party spent the next several hours avoiding patrols of enthralled drow. They also came across additional soulless orogs and stumbled upon more than one lair of spectres in their search for the third level of the catacombs. Somehow, luck or the gods were on their side, and they suffered few injuries. Dead-ends and winding passages slowed their movements, but at last they found the path of descent.

Deeper in the bowels of the dungeons, travel became still more difficult. Huge chasms blocked their progress, forcing them to repeatedly backtrack and seek other routes through the claustrophobic tombs and prison blocks. They now wended through a narrow passage that seemed to go on forever. Kestrel wondered if they would ever find the Rune of the Protector that marked the entrance to the baelnorn’s level.

“The passage seems to widen ahead,” Corran said over his shoulder.

“About time,” Kestrel muttered. It couldn’t get much tighter—Durwyn’s armored shoulders already threatened to scrape the walls.

They emerged in an enormous chamber but could enter only a few feet. They stood on an apron overlooking a drop-off so steep they could not see the bottom of the chasm. Kestrel kicked some loose rocks over the edge. She never heard them land.

Across the chasm stood a raised wooden drawbridge. She quickly scanned the nearby walls, floor, and ceiling for some mechanism to lower the drawbridge from their side but spotted nothing. She ran a hand through her hair, gripping the roots in frustration. “We are not turning around yet again.”

“You don’t have to,” echoed a voice from across the chasm. A female drow warrior stepped out from behind the drawbridge. She held a long, jagged-bladed dagger as casually as another woman might carry a spindle. A topknot secured her long white hair, exposing every angular line of her face. Sharp cheekbones, an aquiline nose, and hard-cast eyes appeared carved in stone. Worn, ragged armor revealed a body so muscular that Kestrel doubted this woman had a soft spot inside or out. Though the dark elf bore the same chevron symbol as the enthralled drow they’d encountered earlier, her skin had the healthy black color borne by Razherrt’s band of living drow.

“Is that a threat?” Kestrel called back.

“Not yet.” At a gesture from the woman, a ragged band comprising half a dozen drow warriors appeared behind her. “At present, we merely command parley.”

Kestrel bristled at the word “command.” The dark elves made Corran seem downright humble. After enjoying the House of Freth’s gracious hospitality, she had no interest in chatting with more drow and was about to say so when Corran stepped forward.

“What do you wish to discuss?”

“Mutual interests.”

Kestrel laughed humorlessly. “Your friend Razherrt didn’t seem to think we have any.”

The drow leader spat. “The House of Freth is no friend to the House of Kilsek. We seek the Freth’s blood.”

“We do not wish to become involved in a blood feud among the drow,” Corran told the dark elf.

“Nor would we allow it! The House of Kilsek reserves for itself the honor of slaying our betrayers! I speak of a different enemy—the Cult of the Dragon.”

Corran paused at that declaration. “What do you know of the cult?”

“More than you do, human! The Freth betrayed my kinfolk to the archmage and her minions. She uses a foul pool to trap my people’s souls, then feeds their blood to a dracolich and enslaves their bodies. We despise Kya Mordrayn and her wicked cult even more than we loathe the traitorous Freth!” The drow’s voice, which had risen to a fever pitch, suddenly turned cold as ice. “Hate is the song in our blood. It is all that lives in us now. We have sworn to release the souls of our kin into true death, even at the cost of own lives.”

Corran studied the dark elf as she spoke, remaining calm in the wake of her passion. “What do you propose?”

“This chasm blocks your path. A cult sorcerer nearby blocks ours. He wields a magical device called the Staff of Sunlight—fatal to us but harmless to surface-dwellers. Agree to kill him, and I will lower the drawbridge. Claim the staff to use against the Freth—I care not. Just stay away from us.”

Kestrel listened to the dark elf’s proposal with growing wariness. Seven drow couldn’t take on one sorcerer? When Corran looked to the group for opinions, she shook her head. “Either they’re lying about how many cultists wait ahead or this sorcerer is more powerful than any we’ve faced so far. They’re looking for spell fodder. After we take him on, they’ll step over our dead bodies and continue on their way.”

“I disagree,” Corran declared. “His staff puts them at a disadvantage we won’t suffer.”

“So they say! Even if that’s true, how do we know they won’t betray us after we defeat him?”

Durwyn cleared his throat. “Kestrel’s got a point. The woman said herself that dark elves aren’t even loyal to each other.”

“It does them no good to betray us,” said Ghleanna. “We fight a common foe.”

Irritated that Ghleanna sided with Corran, Kestrel listened to Jarial and Faeril’s opinions and grew still more agitated. Except for Durwyn, they all favored the paladin. After their treatment at Razherrt’s hands, how could they even consider allying with a group of dark elves?

“These drow are more concerned about their zombie kin than stopping the cult,” she said, her voice rising louder than she intended. “Didn’t you hear her? They want to release the Kilsek’s souls, not battle Mordrayn. How does that help us?”

“Once my people enter true death, they will no longer pose a threat to you,” the drow leader responded. “Know this: Before we’re done I fully intend for the archmage to know the sensation of her blood draining from her body.”

Kestrel studied the dark elf as intensely as she could across the gap. The drow leader stood proud and confident, apparently unperturbed by the rogue’s scrutiny. “How do we know we can trust you?” Kestrel called. “You haven’t even given us your name.”

“Nathlilik, first daughter of the House of Kilsek. And you don’t.” She shrugged. “Accept our proposal or not, humans. You’re the ones who need to cross this chasm.”

The way Nathlilik used the word “human” as if it were a racial slur made Kestrel grind her teeth. She turned to Corran and the others. “To hell with them. We’ll find another way across. I can use my grappling hooks to—”

“We accept,” Corran called to Nathlilik. “Lower the bridge.”

Kestrel gasped involuntarily. “But—”

“You’re outvoted, Kestrel. And we can’t afford for Nathlilik to change her mind while we waste time arguing.”

So now her opinions were merely a waste of time? She fairly shook with anger at this latest example of the paladin’s high-handedness. How dare he just shut her up? She glared at Corran, ready to unleash a stream of epithets when, entirely unbidden, Caalenfaire’s final words entered her head. Do not let conflict between you threaten your mission.

With one final, very uncharitable thought toward Corran D’Arcey, she swallowed her ire. Nathlilik had begun lowering the drawbridge, and they needed to present a united front to the drow band. If anyone’s egoism crippled their quest, it would be Corran’s, not hers.

As they waited for the bridge to settle into place, Kestrel found herself standing off to one side with Ghleanna. Corran and the others were engrossed in watching the bridge mechanism. She studied the paladin as he bantered easily with Jarial and Faeril—even Durwyn. “Why do you all follow him so faithfully?” she muttered, half to Ghleanna and half to herself.

Ghleanna followed her gaze. “He inspires confidence.”

Kestrel looked at the sorceress, puzzled. All Corran had ever inspired in her was frustration. “What do you mean?”

“When we go into battle. Just being near him—I am not afraid. Whatever odds we face, his presence makes me believe we can overcome them. I think it is because his faith is so strong.” She met Kestrel’s eyes. “Surely you feel it, too?”

Kestrel shook her head.

“Mayhap you have not let yourself.”

Kestrel returned her gaze to Corran. To hear Ghleanna talk, the paladin had some aura about him that everyone could sense but her. As a rogue, she prided herself on her perception, on her ability to read people accurately. Had she allowed herself to become blinded? Even so, Corran had his own failings to work on, whether the others could see them or not.

The party crossed the bridge and came eye to eye with the dark elves. The Kilseks’ faces held all the fierceness and arrogance of the Freths’, but they also bore a weariness and desperation that hadn’t been present among Razherrt’s men. Perhaps Nathlilik told the truth after all.

As Kestrel passed the drow leader, their gazes locked. Nathlilik’s red eyes burned with determination Kestrel knew she herself had never felt. “You really do hate the cult,” she murmured.

“My lifemate, Kedar, is among those enslaved,” Nathlilik said. “I will avenge him.”

They found the cult sorcerer exactly where Nathlilik had said to expect him.

They did not expect to find him dead.

“Ugh.” Kestrel grimaced at the sight of the corpse. The cultist lay wrapped in a cocoon of sticky white strands with only his head and neck exposed. Bite marks covered his face and throat, leaving the flesh in shreds. The expression in his frozen eyes suggested he’d died a slow, painful death. “What got him? Spiders?”

“Some kind of wild creature.” Jarial knelt beside the body to lift a long gold staff from where it had fallen near the sorcerer’s body. “Whatever it was, it left this behind.”

She crept closer for a better look. A G-shaped hook crowned the staff, within which a glowing yellow orb floated freely. “The Staff of Sunlight.”

“That’s my guess.”

Kestrel glanced around the rest of the room. A closed door stood opposite the one they had entered, and a table and chair sat in the corner. Several papers lay scattered on the table and floor. Ghleanna picked them up, scanning their content. “Most of these are useless notes, but this page is an order from Mordrayn. It says to eliminate the arraccat from the eastern section of the catacombs’ third level.”

“That’s where we are, isn’t it?” Durwyn asked.

Ghleanna nodded absently as she quoted from the order. “The creatures lair above the baelnorn and thus too close to our operations there.”

Corran took the paper from Ghleanna’s hand and studied it himself. “What’s an arraccat?”

“I think it’s a creature with eight eyes,” said Durwyn, his voice a bit higher-pitched than normal, “and eight legs with really sharp claws... and a wide mouth with wicked fangs... .”

Kestrel glanced at him in surprise, but his back was turned to her. “How do you know that, Durwyn?”

“Because I’m looking at one.”

The arraccat hissed and sprang toward Durwyn. The fighter jumped out of the way, allowing the rest of the companions their first look at the creature. A cross between a spider and a cat, it stood nearly as tall as Kestrel and twice as wide. Brown fur covered its feline head, long tail, and oval arachnid body.

Just as quickly as it had arrived, it disappeared.

Faeril swept the room with her gaze. “Where did it—” Suddenly, two more appeared in the room. “Jarial! Ghleanna! Behind you!”

Ghleanna spun around, her staff cutting the forelegs out from under one of the arraccats. The creature buckled, then evaporated from sight. The other arraccat sprung at Jarial before he could strike it with the Staff of Sunlight, his only weapon at hand. The beast sank its fangs into his shoulder and disappeared.

The mage cried out in pain. “Their bite stings! I think they’re poisonous!”

Kestrel grabbed her club and snapped her wrist. The weapon telescoped not a moment too soon—all three arraccats reappeared, this time behind Corran, Faeril, and Durwyn. She advanced on the closest creature, but a shout from Ghleanna stopped her. “Kestrel, look out!”

She spun to discover a fourth arraccat behind her. Green saliva—or was it venom?—dripped from its fangs. Four pairs of yellow eyes glittered menacingly in the torchlight through slit lids. Kestrel avoided eye contact, knowing that if she stared into those hourglass irises too long, she’d go dizzy.

The creature sprang. She grasped her club in both hands and struck it in the head, momentarily stunning it. No sooner did it disappear from sight than another took its place. The party fought at least six creatures now—the way they kept popping in and out, Kestrel couldn’t keep track—and hadn’t managed to land a fatal blow on any.

“Backs to the walls!” Corran yelled. “So they can’t attack from behind!”

Kestrel fought off another beast and pressed herself against the door opposite the one they’d entered. No one had had time to check what lay on the other side, but at this point she didn’t care. They had to get out of this room. The arraccats now outnumbered them, and more appeared each minute. No wonder the cult sorcerer had fallen prey to the creatures—they multiplied like rabbits.

She tried the door and found it locked. Damn her luck! She fumbled in her belt pouch, willing her fingers to find the right lockpick as she tried to fend off an arraccat one-handed. A moment later, Corran was at her side. “Open it! I’ll cover you!”

The paladin’s blade sliced through the creature and injured another in the time it took her to locate the tool she needed and open the lock. “Durwyn! Faeril!” she shouted over a nearby arraccat’s hiss. “This way! Jarial! Ghleanna!”

One by one they backed over to the open door and slipped through to a small stairwell. Corran entered last. He slammed the door and fell against it, winded.

Several minutes passed in silence as they waited, arms ready, to see whether the arraccats would appear on this side of the door. None did. Jarial loosened his iron grip on the Staff of Sunlight and lowered its end to the ground. “I think we can relax.”

Faeril examined Jarial’s bite mark. The injury itself was minor, and Ozama’s boots had once again protected him from the effects of poison. While the cleric bandaged the wound, Kestrel regarded Corran thoughtfully. The paladin might be an insufferable prig, but he’d seen to everyone else’s safely before his own—unlike the debacle in the House of Gems courtyard. “I thought you never retreat from a fight?”

“Live to fight another day—isn’t that how you rogues think?” He wiped the creatures’ foul blood off Pathfinder and returned the weapon to its scabbard. “I’m beginning to believe that motto has some merit.”

She hadn’t time to contemplate his change in attitude, for Ghleanna summoned them excitedly. “There’s a door at the bottom of the stairs, marked with the Rune of the Protector. The baelnorn cannot be far away.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“Fhaormiir!”

The moment the party approached the door, the Word of Safekeeping boomed out of the air in a deep voice that reverberated throughout the stairwell. Adrenaline raced through Kestrel as the door silently swung open. Soon they would meet the Protector, and ask him to use the Gem of the Weave to undo the corruption of the Mythal. With the tide thus turned against the cult, perhaps she and the others would have a prayer of completing this mission alive. She did not want to consider their chances if the baelnorn refused their petition.

Expecting a long corridor, Kestrel was surprised to discover only a small antechamber. The room was empty, with a single pair of doors breaking up the smooth expanse of wall. The massive oak doors, however, took up nearly one whole side.

“Are we in the right place?” Faeril murmured. “I thought the baelnorn’s dwelling—”

“Hush!” Kestrel closed her eyes to focus her sense of hearing. Muffled noises came from more than one place on the other side of the doors. A muted voice, the scrape of a chair, several low chuckles. She signaled to the others to remain still—and silent—while she investigated. Then she crept up to the doors and peered through the keyhole.

Her vantage point offered only a limited view of the room beyond. Flickering torchlight cast shadows on the walls—two figures standing, more sprawled in chairs around a table. She strained for a better view, but she could not see the people casting the shadows. From the relative size of the shadows, she guessed the erect pair to be closer than the seated individuals. She could hear them, male voices speaking in low tones.

“Still no word from Forgred’s men, Lieutenant?”

“No, Captain.”

“Or Gashet? Rubal?”

“No, sir... .She will not be pleased.”

“Hrmph. She must learn patience.”

Suddenly, a crackling sound rent the air. A gate, like the one that had transported the party to Myth Drannor, appeared in Kestrel’s line of sight. It pulsed and snapped with light and energy. A bright flash lit the room. Then, just as suddenly, the gate disappeared.

Kya Mordrayn had arrived.

Kestrel stifled a gasp. The archmage appeared even more formidable in person than she had in the scrying mirror. She was a tall woman, approaching six feet, and her boots and upswept hair made her seem at least a foot taller. A stiff collar anchored two red leather shoulder pieces that extended like dragon wings on either side of her head. At her waist hung a pair of black metal gloves, with white symbols of an open skeletal mouth on each palm. The Gauntlets of Moander.

Mordrayn’s monstrous right arm hung past her knee—until she raised it to point at one of the speakers who had fallen silent at her entrance.

What news, Mage Captain? As in the scrying mirror, Mordrayn did not open her mouth to speak. Her voice seemed to simply fill the minds of those who listened.

“The baelnorn remains locked away in the next room, Mistress. No one has entered.”

The archmage nodded approvingly. That is well. And the intruders?

“We have not found them yet. But—”

Her brows drew together. I grow tired of excuses. The fingers of Mordrayn’s human hand moved ever so slightly. The captain screamed as a blaze of light filled the room. The smell of burning flesh drifted through the keyhole, accompanied by a sickening sizzling sound.

Unable to see the captain, Kestrel kept her gaze on Mordrayn. As her servant shrieked in pain, the archmage remained stoic, even bored. When the screams ceased and the flames died out, one upright shadow remained on the wall. The seated figures appeared smaller, as if trying to sink into their chairs.

Mordrayn shifted her gaze to encompass the remaining officer. You command now.

“Yes, Mistress.” The figure bowed his head, then raised it quickly. “Mistress—an idea.”

The archmage had turned as if to leave but spun around at her servant’s entreaty. She arched an eyebrow. Speak quickly.

“With your permission, I will unlock the doors.”

The archmage gasped aloud. Unlock them?

“Yes... and be ready.”

Mordrayn stared at her new commander a long time, flexing her talons as she pondered his proposal. Not a sound broke the stillness. Finally, she nodded in assent. Plan wisely. Use the drow slaves as you see fit. And if you fail, pray that they kill you...

The magical gate reappeared. A moment later, the archmage was gone.

Immediately, the commander spun to face the seated figures. “Get up, you maggots! Get moving! You—get everyone in here... .”

Kestrel backed away from the doors and returned to the others. “We’ve found the baelnorn—the cult is holding him captive here.” As she described the scene she’d just witnessed, the sound of an enormous bolt sliding back indicated that the doors now indeed stood unlocked. “We haven’t much time. They’re mobilizing quickly.”

Corran leaned on his sword, frowning. “How many are there?”

“Hard to say—I could see only shadows. A dozen, perhaps more. I suspect at least some of them are sorcerers, as the captain was one.”

All eyes turned to the paladin, including Kestrel’s. She’d never been involved in an out-and-out battle against an organized military force. For once, she was happy to let Corran take command. Was this the confidence Ghleanna had described?

Corran rubbed his temples, then mumbled a brief prayer to Tyr. “Okay, here’s what we do.”

The cult forces were still organizing when Kestrel and her party burst into the room. The element of surprise won them a momentary advantage—long enough for Ghleanna to launch a fireball at the living warriors and Jarial to use the Staff of Sunlight to weaken the enthralled drow assembled in the chamber. The combined effect created a burst of light so bright that even the surface-dwellers blinked.

The enslaved Kilsek staggered under the visual assault, cringing and covering their eyes. Kestrel picked off two of the weakened dark elves without even a struggle, slipping behind them in the bright light of day and sinking a dagger between their shoulder blades. Faeril sent two more to their final rest in the shock of the initial onslaught, her new blade glowing with holy fire.

At the sight of flames dancing around the steel, Kestrel glanced at the cleric in surprise. “I didn’t know that was a magical weapon.”

Faeril regarded the sword in awe. “Neither did I.” She celebrated the discovery by plunging the blade into another dark elf.

Ghleanna had been assigned the task of subduing the commander, at whom she immediately launched a second spell. They’d all hoped the lieutenant would prove the only sorcerer among the cultists—the party had entered combat under the shield of protective spells, but their magical defenses couldn’t hold out forever. Soon, Kestrel saw a sorcerous battle unfold out of the corner of her eye, with Ghleanna and the lieutenant launching magical volleys at each other.

Corran, once again cloaked by invisibility, was to help the half-elf slay the commander, applying steel to supplement spells. Kestrel saw no sign yet of the paladin, but her attention was focused on another drow opponent. The soulless dark elf moved his hands in the gesture-language of Razherrt and his followers. At the last second, she realized he was casting a spell. She dropped to the floor and rolled, trying to dodge his aim, but to no avail. A fan of flames burst from his hands, searing her side.

She yelped in pain but got to her feet, more determined than ever to save Nathlilik the trouble of releasing this particular Kilsek into true death. She hurled Loren’s Blade at him, catching him in the throat. Beside her, Faeril’s flame blade dispatched the last enthralled drow.

Meanwhile, six cult fighters charged Durwyn. Jarial appeared to launch a spell at them, but Kestrel saw no visible effect. She soon realized, however, that the fighters moved more slowly than they had before. Faeril rushed to fight beside Durwyn, while Kestrel maintained her position and sent Loren’s Blade flying once more.

As Ghleanna unleashed a series of fire bursts, a cry of “Death to Tyr’s enemies!” revealed Corran’s whereabouts. Pathfinder penetrated the cult commander’s defenses, striking a blow at the evil sorcerer’s back. The combination of Ghleanna’s spells and Corran’s sword proved the mage’s undoing, and before long he lay on the floor with the dead drow.

Ghleanna, however, suffered serious burns on her arms and face from one of the cultist’s enchantments. Faeril, having just dispatched her opponent with a fatal strike to the chest, disengaged from combat to attend the half-elf. Durwyn had defeated two foes, leaving just three cult fighters blocking the entrance to the baelnorn’s cell.

Kestrel noted the situation with cautious optimism. They could handle the remaining cultists—Corran and Jarial had already weakened two of them. Victory was all but assured.

Until the reinforcements arrived.

Without warning, a gate opened in the corner of the room. The additional forces the lieutenant had summoned earlier spilled out, surprised to find a battle in progress but ready to fight nonetheless. Cult fighters and countless enslaved drow entered the fight filling Kestrel with despair. How could they possibly prevail against these numbers?

“Close the gate!” Corran shouted.

“How?” she shouted back. Even if she knew a way to physically shut a magical portal, too many foes stood between them and the opening.

Jarial darted off to the side, positioning himself directly across from the gate. He unleashed a forked lightning bolt straight at the portal. One branch stopped the flow of cultists streaming out by electrocuting those hapless individuals immediately within. The other branch hit the gate itself, sending a crackle of electrical feedback racing through the very fabric of the portal. The gate snapped and wavered and popped. Random zaps of energy ricocheted within its walls. In a great burst of light, it collapsed.

Kestrel had no time to appreciate the fireworks—too many cultists and drow swarmed the room. Three soulless dark elves had her backed into a corner from which she feared she would never emerge. She found herself unable to land a single offensive blow on any of them—parrying their strikes was the best she could do.

Another burst of sunlight issued from Jarial’s staff, causing Kestrel’s opponents and the rest of the Kilsek to stagger under the sudden brightness. She seized the advantage and brought her club down on one foe’s skull with every ounce of strength she could muster. He slumped to the floor, but another dark elf took his place. The new opponent crippled her left arm with a retributive strike. Moments later, one of his comrades cut her legs out from under her.

Kestrel fell hard. She tried to push the pain from her consciousness, but it clutched at her mind like dark tentacles wrapping around her every thought. Her arm hung limp at her side, the broken bone protruding through her skin and armor. She transferred her club to her right hand and prepared to hold out as long as she could against the swarming dark elves. She called out, trying to draw someone’s attention to her situation, but with their whole party so severely outnumbered she doubted anyone could help her.

This was it, then, the place where she would die—beset by undead drow in the bowels of Myth Drannor. She had always wondered.

She fended off two more blows but could not block the third. It slammed into her head, knocking her flat and blurring her vision. Did she still face three drow, or did six now surround her? Through the haze overtaking her awareness, she heard Faeril’s voice rise above the din of battle. “By the grace of Mystra, I command thee to fall back!”

They were the last words she heard.

CHAPTER TWELVE

“Kestrel? Kestrel!”

Faeril’s voice drifted to her through a fog, stirring Kestrel to consciousness. Her battered body hurt all over, but her left arm ached so intensely that she almost lapsed back into oblivion rather than endure the pain.

Gentle fingers searched her throat for a pulse. “Thank Mystra, she’s still alive,” the cleric said.

“How bad is she hurt?” Was that Corran’s voice or Durwyn’s? Kestrel’s head was still too cloudy to distinguish the male timbre, and she had not yet been able to force her eyes open.

“She’s got a compound fracture in her left arm. I can heal that—it’s her unconsciousness that concerns me most. I fear a serious head injury. Did anyone see when she fell?”

“Just before you turned the undead drow.” That was Corran’s voice. The other speaker must have been Durwyn. “She was surrounded by them. I tried to reach her, but—”

“We all had our hands full.” Faeril grasped Kestrel’s injured arm and—in movements that caused pain more excruciating than the break itself—reset the bone. Kestrel heard the cleric begin a prayer. In a few minutes the pain subsided, though it did not disappear completely. “That is all I can do for now,” Faeril said. “I have exhausted my healing gifts for this day.”

“Were it not for your healing spells during combat, none of us would have survived that battle,” Corran said.

Faeril’s ministrations, though limited, boosted Kestrel’s strength enough that the rogue finally managed to open her eyes. She blinked rapidly, trying to focus her blurred vision. After a moment, her sight cleared.

Corran and Faeril knelt beside her, with Durwyn hovering close behind. The three of them had removed their helms, and all looked as if they’d journeyed to the Abyss and back. Blood spattered their armor and caked their hair. An ugly bruise had formed on Corran’s right cheekbone, just above the stubble line of his four-day beard. Cuts covered Faeril’s arms, including one long gash that ran from elbow to shoulder. Durwyn seemed to favor his left leg.

The burly warrior smiled as she met his worried gaze. “We thought we’d lost you,” he said.

“Sorry to disappoint everyone,” Kestrel said weakly. When she tried to sit up, Faeril had to support her. “Where are Ghleanna and Jarial?”

Corran glanced off to one side. “Resting. Both suffered terrible burns from cult spells. We were surprised to find Jarial still breathing after two fireballs hit him at once. I just stabilized him, but it will be some time before he—or any of us, really—is moving quickly.”

Kestrel pushed the last of her mental fogginess aside, forcing herself to think clearly. “We’ve got to get out of here. Another gate could open any moment with more reinforcements.”

The paladin nodded gravely. “I think that door over there leads to the baelnorn’s cell. We haven’t even had a chance to see whether it’s locked. Feel up to examining it?”

With Faeril’s aid, Kestrel got to her feet. Dizziness seized her, but she fought it off and stumbled to the door, praying to any deity who would listen that this would prove a simple lock. She couldn’t analyze much more at the moment—not with the pounding headache forming behind her eyes.

They found the door unlocked. Within, an ancient elf sat in the center of the tiny boxlike room. Wrinkles surrounded his glowing white eyes, which assessed Kestrel and the others as they entered. Not a strand of hair remained on his pate, making his regal forehead look all the higher. His pointed ears and fingers seemed preternaturally long, even for an elf. Simple garments of brown homespun covered his shriveled, pale skin. Long arms hugged his knees to his chest in a defensive posture.

Yet for all the alterations wrought upon his physical form by age and undeath, the man once known as Miroden Silverblade still possessed such a puissant, vital presence that a full minute elapsed before anyone realized the baelnorn could not move.

Jarial leaned heavily on the Staff of Sunlight as he regarded the Protector. The mage’s too-pink skin shone tight against the bones of his face. His eyelashes and eyebrows had been singed off altogether. “I believe he’s magically bound,” he said in a voice so scratchy that it pained Kestrel to hear it.

“Aye,” said Ghleanna, who did not look much better.

“With an enchantment similar to one I used on you, Kestrel.” Her blistered lips twisted into what Kestrel could only suppose was meant to be a wry smile. “The day we first met—remember?”

She remembered the incident, although that afternoon in Phlan seemed years ago. “Does that mean you can free him?”

“I believe I have enough strength remaining to try one spell.” Ghleanna mumbled her incantation as she hobbled in a circle around the baelnorn. When she returned to her starting point, she extended one hand toward the guardian and uttered a final word.

The baelnorn unfurled like a morning glory in the sun, rising to a towering height. He was a tall man—well over six feet—made taller still, Kestrel soon realized, by the fact that he levitated about a foot off the floor. A noble calmness seemed to surround him, putting her at ease despite the fact that the party was in the presence of yet another undead denizen of the city.

“You have my deepest gratitude,” the Protector said in a rich voice that belied his gaunt appearance. “But we are not safe here. Come.” He swept his hand broadly. The room faded around them, and they found themselves in a large circular chamber. “Here, in my home, we may speak freely.”

The apartment was comfortably, if sparsely, furnished. Soft light filled the room, though Kestrel couldn’t determine its source. A wooden table and two chairs sat in one part of the chamber; a plush bedroll and plump cushions lay spread in another. A large section of the wall held shelves piled high with books and scrolls. Two massive trunks stood beneath.

Kestrel had expected the Mythal’s communicant to enjoy more lavish quarters. To her way of thinking, gracious surroundings were a minimum trade-off for an eternity of constant vigilance. Yet the more she assessed the humble dwelling, the more it seemed a proper place for the baelnorn to guard the Sapphire of the Weave. Few would think to plunder such a simple abode in search of the priceless gem.

Opposite the doorway stood an ornate glass case containing a small, red velvet pillow. The pillow still held the impression of an item that had once rested upon it—surely the Gem of the Weave. The treasure, however, was nowhere in sight. Dread seized her. In the baelnorn’s absence, had the cultists stolen the Sapphire? If Mordrayn had the gem, their quest was surely doomed, for Kestrel could think of no other means to cleanse the Mythal of the corruption that tainted it.

She tore her gaze away from the empty case to see whether the Protector had noted the missing item. He avoided her questioning look. Instead, he addressed the group as a whole. “Sit,” he said, “and be well.”

At a slight gesture from the baelnorn, Kestrel’s headache immediately dissipated. A moment later the pain in her arm and residual aches from other injuries fled as well. She felt rested as if she’d slept for a week—better than she had since waking with that firewine hangover in Phlan before all this madness began. Looking around, she saw that the others also had been restored to perfect health. The men even appeared clean-shaven.

“I am Miroden Silverblade, known as the Protector for these past six centuries,” he said, his tired but clear eyes studying the companions as keenly as they assessed him. “To whom do I owe my freedom? And what brought the six of you to that black corner of the catacombs?”

Corran introduced the party and described their activities thus far, concluding with Anorrweyn Evensong’s suggestion to seek the baelnorn’s aid. “She told us you protect the Sapphire of the Weave, and that you possibly could use the gem to reverse the corruption of the Mythal. But we didn’t expect to find you held captive.”

“Nor did I intend to become so.” The Protector sighed heavily, the lines in his face settling deeper. “The cult imprisoned me because Mordrayn and Pelendralaar fear my influence over what remains of the Mythal. Since the Year of Doom, I have used my abilities as communicant to slow the decay of the city’s mantle. As all that I once knew withered and died around me, I held fast to my belief that one day the Mythal would prove the key to restoring Myth Drannor to its lost glory. The cult thinks I still have the power to undo the corruption they have wrought upon the Weave.”

Thinks. Kestrel’s heart sank to the pit of her stomach. “You don’t?”

“Nay.” A stricken look crossed the baelnorn’s features. He turned his back on them and floated to the empty case. His shaking fingers reached through the glass to caress the depression in the pillow. “They came. The Cult of the Dragon.” His voice, so rich before, now warbled in the trembling tones of an old man. “I had... grown weak in my solitude. I succumbed when I should have stood fast.”

Kestrel stifled a groan of dismay mixed with frustration. How could an artifact as important as the Gem of the Weave have been left in the care of someone too frail to protect it? Though the baelnorn had appeared formidable when they first discovered him, Mordrayn must have used her dreadful magic to take advantage of the guardian’s true age. “They stole it from you, didn’t they? Mordrayn and her minions?”

Silverblade yet stood with his back to them, hunched over the empty pillow. “Nay,” he said brokenly. “I—” His hand slowly formed a fist, as if his fingers closed around the missing stone. He straightened his spine, lifted his shoulders. “I destroyed it.”

Ghleanna gasped. “But how could you—”

He turned to face them, once more possessing the air of authority he’d momentarily lost. His hands no longer trembled, and he raised his chin. “Do you think I would let them have it? Do you think I would betray centuries of trust? I destroyed it!” His eyes challenged them to dispute the wisdom of his act. “The cult tried to steal the sapphire from me, and I annihilated it rather than allow the gem to fall into their clutches. I can no longer commune with the Mythal, for there no longer exists an instrument through which to do so.”

The baelnorn’s defiant tone discouraged anyone from questioning his decision. Besides, what would be the point? The gem was gone. Stillness filled the air—the sound of hope dying in the hearts of six weary adventurers.

Kestrel’s shoulders slumped. Without the sapphire, how could they possibly touch the Mythal, let alone redeem it? She thought with irony of all the gems that had passed through her rogue’s hands. She would have traded them all for this single stone.

That musing sparked another. She leaned forward as the notion took shape in her mind. “Can the gem be replaced?”

A fleeting expression of shock passed over the Protector’s face, transposed so quickly into one of mere surprise that Kestrel wasn’t entirely sure she’d seen it. “Replaced? I—I don’t know. Such an undertaking has never been attempted.” He paused, as if turning over the idea in his mind. “A new Gem of the Weave... We have nothing to lose in trying.”

“Consider us your servants.” Corran sprung to his feet. “Tell us what we can do to help. Do you need any special materials?” The others also rose.

“Only a gem,” the baelnorn replied. “Harldain Ironbar provided the original sapphire. He can direct you to a new stone. But you also must find a new communicant.”

Kestrel frowned. “Why? What about you?”

Miroden Silverblade shook his head wearily. “My time as Protector is over. A new Gem of the Weave requires a new guardian, someone who possesses the wisdom to guide the Mythal, the strength to survive symbiosis with the Weave, the power to keep the stone safe. And, of course, the willingness to spend eternity bound inextricably to the gem.”

The party exchanged glances. Kestrel knew she sure as hell wasn’t suited for such responsibility. None of them were. “Is there anyone in Myth Drannor who meets that description?”

“There is,” the baelnorn said. “No mortal could withstand the Mythal’s fire, but one exists who already knows the blessings—and curse—of immortality. Anorrweyn Evensong. The priestess is steeped in the lore of the Mythal, and her spirit has survived the trials of time and adversity. She would serve as the perfect communicant.”

“We shall hasten to ask her as soon as we finish with Harldain,” Corran said. “Assuming Anorrweyn agrees, how does she become bound to the new gem?”

“Once you obtain an appropriate stone, you must carry it up the spine of the Speculum to a focal point in the dragon’s back. With the gem in place, the new communicant recites the Incantation of the Weave. Anorrweyn knows the words—she was present at the first binding. This spellsong bonds the chanter to the gem and attunes the gem to the Mythal.”

“How will we know whether the ceremony succeeded?” Ghleanna asked. “Whether the Mythal accepted the new gem?”

“You will know.”

Corran started to put his helm back on his head. “We have much to do. We’d best get started.”

“Hold.” The Protector looked as if he had something more to say but struggled over whether to reveal it. His gaze swept the group, then came to rest on the trunks that stood behind them. “Yes,” he murmured, nodding to himself. “You need all the aid I have left within my power to give.”

He went to the trunks, brushed dust off the top of one and opened its groaning lid. “In this chest lie some of Myth Drannor’s greatest remaining treasures, items given me by the coronal himself to help me safeguard the Gem of the Weave. Though I have failed that duty, perhaps some item in here will help you succeed.” Reaching inside, he called Corran’s name. The paladin stepped forward.

“Are you trained to fight with a shield?”

“Aye, though I prefer to leave my left hand free.”

“You might prefer it to hold this.” The Protector withdrew an oval shield etched with white stars along its border. “This is a mageshield, designed to protect its user from death magic. Necromantic spells that hit this shield will bounce back at their caster.” His expression darkened, his gaze clouding with memories he alone could see. “‘Tis no less than those cult sorcerers deserve.” Corran accepted the gift and bowed low, looking as humble as Kestrel had ever seen him.

Silverblade collected himself and turned to the others. “Ghleanna Stormlake.” The half-elf walked to stand before the baelnorn. “Is that a magical staff you carry?”

“No, Protector.”

“This is.” He produced a six-foot wooden staff covered with ornate symbols and runes, most of them resembling flames and bolts of energy. “A spellstaff. Solid as oak, light as balsa. Use it as you would an ordinary quarterstaff. But should anyone send fire or lightning your way, the staff will absorb it. Tap it twice to release the energy at a target of your choosing.”

Ghleanna’s eyes shone with gratitude. “I have suffered terrible burns from fire magic these past days. I thank you, Protector.”

More gifts followed: bracers of protection from paralysis for Faeril, a ring of regeneration for Jarial, a trio of bronze-tipped arrows for Durwyn.

“Finally you, Kestrel.” Tremors raced up Kestrel’s arm as the Protector lifted her right hand. The silver ring she’d inherited from Athan’s band caught the light. “Do you know what this is you wear?”

She shook her head. “There’s nothing special-looking about it. I thought it was an ordinary silver ring.”

“On the contrary. You wear a mantle ring, a piece of magical jewelry crafted in the glory days of Myth Drannor. No doubt your ring earned its battered appearance from centuries of owners who engaged in dangerous missions like yours. The carvings have been worn until they look like mere scratches, but its power remains strong. This ring will shield you from injurious sorcerers’ spells.”

Kestrel thought of the magical hits she’d taken from the cultists and drow. “But it hasn’t protected me from anything.”

“Mantle rings must be worn in pairs. Its mate is probably lost to time.” He opened his hand to reveal another silver band of the same size. This one had a smooth surface engraved with tiny runes. “Wear this ring on your left hand, and a dozen spells will wash over you harmlessly.”

He dropped the ring in her palm. She stared at it, her intrinsic distrust of magic making her reluctant to put it on. Would she feel different? Would it have some other, unknown effect on her? She met the Protector’s gaze and, at his commanding nod, slipped the ring on her finger. Nothing dramatic happened. In fact, within moments she scarcely noticed its presence.

“Now go,” the baelnorn said, meeting each pair of eyes one by one. His face held a look of desperation. “Save the Mythal. For if Mordrayn and the cult use it for the great evil they intend, the City of Song can never be redeemed.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“Back again, are you?” Harldain Ironbar greeted them as they entered his tower. “Did you find the old Protector?”

“We did indeed,” said Corran. “Now we’ve another favor to ask.”

“Name it.”

Corran told the old dwarf about the sapphire’s destruction at the baelnorn’s hands and their need for a new stone. Harldain stroked his beard. “Well, I’ll be damned.” He shook his head as if in disbelief. “Centuries ago, when we mined for the sapphire, Caalenfaire advised me to secure three gems. He said we would need more than one to ensure the Mythal’s survival. At the time, I thought he wanted some backups in case somethin’ went wrong during the incantation ceremony. But now I’ll wager he saw this day comin’. Imagine that! Way back then.”

“So you have another sapphire?”

“No. We couldn’t find two perfect sapphires. Once we had the first, all others seemed flawed—the color was off, or they lacked clarity, or some such thing. So we mined an emerald and a ruby instead. The ruby was destroyed by the nycaloth when the Armies of Darkness swept the city, but we still have the emerald, down in the Hoard.”

“The what?”

“The Hoard of the Onaglym Dwarves. Our private stash of treasure.”

Kestrel felt her energy flag. “Don’t tell me it’s back in the dwarven dungeons.” She couldn’t bear the thought of still more backtracking.

“Nope. It’s right below the courtyard. You know...” He cast a knowing look at Kestrel. “The one with your favorite statue.”

Kestrel remembered the animated, axe-swinging dwarf only too well. Even with the passkey to disable it this time around, she’d given the stone guardian a wide berth when they arrived. “Where’s the entrance to the Hoard?” she asked. “I searched the whole courtyard and didn’t find any secret doors or hidden stairways.”

“Did you check the statue itself?” He shrugged. “No matter. Even if you had, you couldn’t get at the Hoard without the Ironbar.”

Durwyn regarded the ghost in confusion. “Without you?”

Harldain winked and slipped a small baton out of a pocket in his robe. “No, this ironbar.” He handed the object to Kestrel. It was an ordinary-looking rod about twelve inches long, half an inch in diameter, and—judging from its weight—made of solid iron. “There’s a hole at the base of the statue. Push the rod into the opening to unseal the entrance.”

They hastened back to the courtyard, where they immediately put the ironbar to use. A great grinding sound echoed through the courtyard as the statue slowly slid backward to reveal a shaft about twenty feet deep. Rungs embedded in the wall formed a ladder. At the bottom was a passage opening, but from their vantage point they could not see where it led.

Kestrel stared down into the blackness, then swung herself over the edge and scaled the ladder. When her feet touched ground, the passage flared with sudden brightness.

“What’s that?” Corran called down.

She peered through the portal. The passage extended just three feet before opening into a large chamber lined with flaming torches. “Some sort of automatic lighting system. The treasure room’s right here. You can come down if you want, but the doorway’s only about four feet tall.” She crawled through the entrance and let out a low whistle. “Wow! Get a load of this... .”

Her exclamation sent the party scurrying down the shaft for a look at the legendary Hoard of the Onaglym Dwarves. Durwyn elected to remain above standing guard, but the others soon joined her wide-eyed survey of the scene. Jewels by the trunkful, gold by the ton, exquisitely crafted armor and weapons all lined the room. In the center, surrounded by glass, a palm-sized emerald hung suspended in mid-air, slowly rotating in place, its facets catching the torchlight and sending deep green rays dancing along the walls.

Kestrel walked toward the glass. “That must be what we’re looking for.”

“Aye, that it is.”

They all jumped at the sound of Harldain’s voice booming behind them. Without another word, the ghost approached the emerald, leaning on his cane as if it still supported the weight of a body. Though his hand penetrated the glass effortlessly as he reached toward the stone, he did not touch it.

“I wanted to see it one last time.” His gaze caressed the gem reverently. “You’ll not lay eyes on a finer emerald in all the Realms.” With obvious reluctance, he tore his eyes away from the stone. “The dwarves of Myth Drannor kept this emerald safe all these years, awaitin’ the need Caalenfaire foresaw. I now put it in your hands.”

In one fluid motion, he raised his cane and smashed the glass. Thousands of shards fell to the ground in a circle around the gem, which still levitated and spun.

Undaunted by the sharp fragments, Corran crushed them beneath his armored feet as he claimed the emerald. “We shall defend the gem with our lives until a new Protector guards it.”

“Let me help.” Harldain crossed to a collection of prominently displayed armor and weapons. “These are the finest items our dwarven craftsmen ever produced, augmented by the spells of the coronal’s best wizards for those who defended the City of Song in the Weepin’ War. Rather than let such powerful articles fall into enemy hands, they were enchanted to return here if their bearers fell in battle.” Harldain brushed his fingers along the edge of a breastplate that seemed to glow with inner light. His eyes held a far-off expression, as if he were remembering the soldier who last wore the piece. He cleared his throat. “They’ve been in this chamber ever since, and they aren’t doin’ anyone any good just sittin’ down here,” he said gruffly. “Take whatever you can use.”

Kestrel gazed at the collection in awe, her eyes drawn in particular to a set of leather armor about her size, which looked more supple than a pair of ladies’ kid gloves. Was it truly hers for the taking?

Harldain noted her admiration. “That suit will protect you much better than what you’re sportin’ now and let you move much easier. You’ll think you’re wearin’ silk pajamas.”

She laughed at the absurd statement—no armor could feel like that.

“Try it on if you don’t believe me.”

To her astonishment, she found Harldain hadn’t been exaggerating. The pieces fit as if they’d been made for her and felt light as an ordinary shirt. “Take it,” he urged. She couldn’t argue.

The others each selected lighter, better protection than what they’d been wearing. Even the sorcerers found cloaks enchanted to repel enemy attacks. Durwyn, still standing watch above, was not forgotten—Harldain himself chose a suit of lightweight plate sized for the warrior’s large build.

The ghostly dwarf had become increasingly gruff as they changed equipment. Kestrel thought it was because he didn’t really want to part with the armor, but he revealed the true source of his anxiety as they departed.

“You’re runnin’ out of time,” he said. “I can feel it. Find Anorrweyn and get that emerald to the top of the Speculum just as quick as you can. The cult’s control of the Mythal is strong. The city is dyin’ around us.”

The scent of gardenias manifested before Anorrweyn Evensong’s spirit. Kestrel inhaled deeply. The sweet perfume soothed her frayed nerves as she waited for the priestess to appear. Would the ghost agree to serve as communicant? She fervently hoped so, for she didn’t know what they would do if Anorrweyn refused.

A pensive silence hung over the group. Faeril had just finished some invocations to Mystra. Corran had joined her in the prayers, then offered a few of his own to Tyr. The events of the past several days had made it difficult for the paladin to perform his regular devotions, and he took advantage of this interlude to reconnect with his patron deity. The rest of the group, Kestrel included, had maintained a respectful quiet and used the time for contemplation.

Anorrweyn materialized moments after the telltale fragrance. She seemed less translucent this time, a little more solid. Her face bore a radiant smile. “You have found my skull.”

Faeril knelt before her. “Yes, priestess. We’ve interred it with the rest of your bones in the grave outside.”

“I thank you all. Now I may occupy this plane of time and better follow events of the present instead of forever reliving the past.” The priestess made eye contact with each of them in turn, her eyes further expressing her gratitude. When her gentle gaze met Kestrel’s, the rogue felt a sense of peace flood her soul.

With a gesture, Anorrweyn invited them all to sit in the half-circle of benches that still remained from their last conference. Kestrel found it curious that the ghost always sat down along with them, as if she too benefited from rest. Perhaps it was a habit carried over from her mortal days or an attempt to put them at ease in her undead presence. This time Anorrweyn sat beside Faeril, who regarded her idol with reverence.

“Did you also find the Protector?” the spirit asked.

“We did, priestess,” Corran said. “But he could not help us.”

Anorrweyn’s eyes widened. She sat forward as if she hadn’t entirely heard him. “Miroden Silverblade refused to aid your quest?”

“The Gem of the Weave is no more. The Baelnorn destroyed it to keep the cult from seizing its power.”

“Impossible!” Anorrweyn shook her head vigorously, as if doing so could negate the truth of the statement. She rose and paced restlessly. “You are sure you understood him correctly?” She cast her gaze from one person to the next, but all gave affirmative nods.

“The Protector said he cannot commune with the Mythal because the sapphire no longer exists,” Corran explained. “We found him imprisoned by the cult, who tried to steal it when they captured him.”

Anorrweyn sat down once more. She seemed lost in thought as she stared though the doorway of the temple at the ruined city beyond. Several minutes passed in uncomfortable silence as the ghost remained in reverie and the mortals hesitated to disturb her. Faeril waited in rapt attention. Durwyn traced the handle of his axe with his thumb. Ghleanna picked lint off her cloak. When Kestrel turned her gaze to Corran, she was startled to find him regarding her. Surely her didn’t expect her to do something? She frowned in question, but he looked away.

Were the others as conscious as she of time ticking away? Ultimately, it was the paladin who took the plunge. “Priestess...” Corran began tentatively.

Anorrweyn broke her trance. “My apologies. I hoped to sense confirmation of your news through my own, limited, attunement to the Mythal, but I cannot. These tidings deeply unsettle me. Either Miroden is mistaken about the fate of the sapphire, or he lied to you. I can think of no other explanation. The Protector’s very existence is linked inextricably to the Gem of the Weave—that is what it means to be a baelnorn. If the sapphire was indeed destroyed, he would have died along with it.” She frowned in puzzlement. “Did he say anything else?”

“He told us that a new Gem of the Weave could be made, with a new stone and a new communicant. The replacement gem could be used to reverse the Mythal’s corruption and free it from the cult’s hold.”

Anorrweyn’s brows rose at the suggestion. Guarded interest danced across her delicate features. “This replacement gem—how is it to be created? Where are you to locate an appropriate jewel?”

“Harldain provided us with a new stone.” Corran brought the emerald forward for Anorrweyn to see. Its color was a near-perfect match to the shade of her gown.

She reached toward the gem, caressing the air just a hair’s breadth away above its surface. “An emerald this time... .” The jewel caught a ray of afternoon sunlight and held it, appearing to glow from within. Anorrweyn raised her eyes and met Corran’s gaze once more. “And the new communicant?”

“The Protector thought that you might be persuaded.”

Her eyes widened. “Me? I—” She fell silent again, apparently pondering the unexpected proposal. She glanced around the ruined shell of her temple, her gaze lingering on each small sign of destruction—the missing ceiling, wall cracks, rubble piles, vestiges of the nagas’ occupation. Her face settled into an expression of sadness so intense it pained Kestrel to behold it.

“There is nothing left here for me,” she said finally. “Of course I shall answer this new call to Mystra’s service.” She rose, her incorporeal form already starting to fade from view, “Since you have the gem, all that remains is to carry it to the top of the Speculum. There shall we attune the emerald. Pass through the Gate of Antarn to begin your climb up the dragon’s back. I give you now my blessing, that the gate will open to admit you.”

Anorrweyn closed her eyes and raised her hands over the party. In a low, soft voice she murmured the words of her invocation. Kestrel and the others bowed their heads to receive her blessing. Faeril dropped to her knees.

When the priestess finished, she lowered her arms and opened her eyes once more. “Farewell for now, my friends.” Only the faintest outline of her figure remained, but her voice yet carried strong and steady, mingling with the heady scent of gardenias. “I shall meet you at the crest of the dragon’s spine.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

On previous visits to the Speculum, the party had not even noticed the Gate of Antarn. Under Anorrweyn’s blessing, however, they clearly saw the solid pair of wooden doors that barred access to the building’s winding exterior staircase. As soon as they neared the tip of the dragon’s tail, the ancient oak doors creaked open to grant them entry.

Before proceeding, Kestrel cast a wary glance at the sky. “Let’s be quick about this.” Already, the sun dipped low. In an hour’s time dusk would settle on the city. She’d no wish to stand exposed on the roof of the Speculum at all, let alone once darkness fell. Already, shadows gathered on rooftops and behind clouds.

The spiraling stone staircase proved narrow and in poor repair. Ballistae had smashed many of the steps, leaving some sections impossible to surmount without Kestrel’s rope and grappling hook. They climbed single-file, with Kestrel leading the way and Durwyn bringing up the rear. Kestrel repeatedly studied the sky, unable to shake the feeling that someone watched them from above.

“Do you see something?” Corran, immediately behind her, also raised his gaze heavenward.

“No. Not yet.” She searched the clouds a moment longer. How often did Pelendralaar leave his lair to swoop through the skies? “This just seems too easy.”

“Tell that to Durwyn.” Even in his new lightweight armor, the big man was having trouble picking his way along the narrow, rubble-strewn staircase. He sent scree cascading with every other step. Kestrel observed the steep incline and smaller width of the stairs yet ahead—and the craters where steps used to be—and prayed the warrior would maintain his balance. Even she had trouble finding footing in some places.

Kestrel heard Ghleanna’s voice call from behind Corran. “How do we find the ‘focal point’ the baelnorn mentioned once we reach the top?”

“No idea,” Corran confessed, to Kestrel’s surprise. She could not recall a previous instance of the paladin admitting to ignorance, “I’m hoping Anorrweyn will be waiting for us when we get there.”

Kestrel paused and glanced around. They had climbed about a third of the way to the top and reached an elevation that provided a panoramic view of the Heights. Shadows dappled the structures below and grew longer with each passing minute. The setting sun also played tricks on her eyes—she could have sworn she saw movement on the ledge of a nearby building, but on second look she saw only grim statues perched watchfully along the rooftop. Gargoyles. She’d heard stories of the winged, horned beasts animating and taking flight, but she’d never put any stock in the accounts. Nursery tales, meant to scare children into staying indoors after dark. That’s all she’d ever believed them to be.

She was starting to reconsider that opinion.

They climbed higher. The faint breeze that had tousled her hair now became a steady wind. The sun dipped behind the horizon, leaving only its upper hemisphere visible. Kestrel hated this time of day—twilight made the eyes play tricks. Were they halfway up the staircase, or further? Was that movement just now, off to the left? Though dusk could often prove a thief’s best friend, right now she wished for full dark rather than the murky, ambiguous half-light.

She stopped once more and listened to the wind. She’d swear on Quinn’s grave that she heard low, guttural voices followed by the flapping of wings. Was that too an illusion, a trick of the atmosphere? “Do you hear that?” she asked Corran.

The paladin never had a chance to answer.

A woosh from above was all the warning they had before a pair of gargoyles swooped down at them. Kestrel ducked instinctively, while Corran raised his shield to block the sharp stone claws that reached toward him. The creatures shrieked at the failure of their surprise attack, then circled for another run.

“What in blazes was that?” Durwyn asked.

“Gargoyles,” Kestrel and Corran answered in unison. Kestrel glanced around wildly for cover, but there was none to be had—the party was completely exposed. Faeril began to chant a prayer-spell that Kestrel hoped would offer some protection. Ghleanna and Jarial, meanwhile, started muttering words of their own.

The gargoyles descended again. This time two more had joined their ranks. One swooped at Ghleanna just as she completed her spell. The creature suddenly went rigid, unable to control its dive. It crashed against the side of the building and smashed to bits that rained onto the ground below.

Two other gargoyles met the same fate. The fourth plunged toward Corran with both its claws outstretched. The paladin struck the beast with his warhammer, but the weapon glanced off without so much as chipping the stone. The gargoyle’s claws lashed out but could not penetrate Corran’s new armor.

Undaunted, the creature circled and dove once more. As its horns rushed toward the paladin, Corran grabbed Pathfinder. Glowing with magical light, the sword impaled the beast as its head struck the paladin’s shield. The creature dropped to Corran’s feet, where it took the combined strength of Corran and Durwyn to shove it off the stairs and send it tumbling to the ground.

Kestrel cast her gaze skyward as the fighters disposed of the body. She did not see any more of the creatures approaching, but the hazy gray light camouflaged the stone beasts so well that she couldn’t be sure. “We’ve got to move faster,” she said.

They climbed only a few steps farther when more wingbeats echoed through the air. Half a dozen beasts approached this time, each targeting a different person. Ghleanna released another spell, paralyzing three of the beasts and sending them plummeting to earth.

Two of the remaining gargoyles suddenly reared up as Jarial completed a casting. They hovered three or so feet away, advancing then retreating, as if they had forgotten what they were supposed to do. One of them uttered a guttural word that sounded like a curse in any language, and flew away. The other flew in confused circles.

The last gargoyle dived headlong into Durwyn. Though its horns did not penetrate the warrior’s armor, the force of impact knocked him off balance. He struggled to regain his equilibrium, tottering precariously on the edge of the staircase.

“Durwyn!” Kestrel watched him in horror. They were well over a hundred feet above the ground—it would be a long fall, with a deadly landing. She willed the fighter to catch himself.

Faeril lunged toward him, trying to reach an arm and pull him to surer footing, but the guard lost his battle with gravity and toppled over the edge. Faeril managed to grasp only his ankle as he disappeared from view. Reacting quickly, Jarial grabbed her legs before Durwyn’s weight could pull the cleric over the edge as well.

“I... can’t... hold him...” Faeril’s face turned red with exertion as she struggled to keep her grip. Several highly unladylike grunts followed. Every muscle in her arms and neck bulged.

Corran scurried to help, but before he could reach them the gargoyle swooped again. The paladin’s blade rang as he struck the creature. Faeril, meanwhile, had turned purple. Her perspiring hands were sliding off Durwyn’s armor. “I’m losing him!”

“Hang on!” Kestrel couldn’t aid her—too many people were in the way, and the space was too narrow. She could help Jarial, who also struggled to maintain his grasp. As she grabbed Faeril’s legs, she heard the sorcerer beside her muttering another spell.

Ghleanna also uttered another casting, this one directed at the remaining gargoyles. Both creatures suddenly ceased moving. Their wings fell still. Then, as had the rest of their pack, they dropped like rocks.

Corran reached Faeril and added his strength to hers. “You all right?” he called to Durwyn.

“I can’t find a handhold,” he shouted. “It’s a sheer drop.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll get you up somehow.” After reassuring the warrior, he tried to help Faeril pull him to safety. His efforts, however, were thwarted by Durwyn’s sheer bulk. Corran lowered his voice so only those still on the stairs could hear. “We can’t get enough leverage to pull him up.”

Kestrel felt her heart skip a beat. “I think Jarial is working on something.”

Faeril released a groan. “Tell him to work faster.”

A moment later, Jarial finished mumbling.

“Oh!” the cleric exclaimed. “Kestrel, Jarial... you can let go.”

“W—what?” Kestrel stared at her in shock.

“I’ve boosted her strength,” Jarial said.

Kestrel looked from him back to Faeril and reluctantly loosed her grip. Faeril rose to a crouch, some of the strain gone from her face. “Help me lift him,” she said to Corran in a steady voice.

As the others watched in mute amazement, the cleric rose to her feet, bringing Durwyn’s legs with her. Had she been taller, she could have lifted his whole body over the edge, gripping him by the ankles like a plucked goose. As it was, Corran guided the warrior’s chest and head over the edge of the staircase while Faeril pulled him to safety.

“Damn...” Kestrel muttered. Magically boosted or not, she’d never seen a woman perform such an incredible feat of strength. Her voice was swallowed by the wind, which had changed direction and now carried a chill. The sun sank lower behind the horizon.

They continued up the stairs with as much haste as they could. Ahead, Kestrel saw a circle crowned by bony-looking spires. The dragon’s spine, Anorrweyn and the Protector had called it, and now she understood why. The spindly arches looked like the vertebrae of a great beast. They rose toward the darkened sky, somehow untouched by the missiles that had bombarded the stairs. The circle had to be their destination.

The higher they climbed, the more the wind buffeted them about. By the time they reached the apex, their hair whipped about their faces and they had to shout to be heard. Lingering rays of sunlight streaked across the sky.

The party entered the circle with more desperation than reverence. Runes and intricate knotwork, similar to what they had seen inside the Hall of Wizards, covered the stone floor. About ten feet above, the bony spires arced toward a central hollow just large enough for a certain gem.

“Let’s do this and get out of here,” Kestrel said. Though she scanned the shadows, she saw no sign of the priestess. “Where’s Anorrweyn?”

“We’ll have to wait for her,” Faeril said.

Out of the corner of her eye, Kestrel detected movement in the near-darkness. She turned, scanning the sky. More wings, and lots of them. “We don’t have time to wait.” She pointed. “There’s a whole flight of gargoyles coming at us! Put the emerald in place!”

Corran hesitated. “We don’t know the—”

“Just do it!”

The wind had become a gale, speeding the gargoyles closer each second. In the light of the dying sun, Kestrel could see a sinister gleam of hatred in their eyes. They hurled themselves at the party with frightening velocity.

Boosted by Durwyn, Corran slid the emerald into its setting. The gem caught the last ray of light just before the sun faded from view. The beam sparked a glow in the emerald that immediately radiated in a sphere so large as to encompass the entire Speculum in a pale green aura.

The gargoyles, too fast and too close to change their course, slammed into the intangible field. Their bodies bounced off the barrier like hail.

“Such creatures of evil deserve nothing less,” said a soft voice behind them. Anorrweyn had materialized. Despite the force field, wind still whipped through the stone circle so hard that Kestrel and others had trouble staying on their feet. The ghost, however, appeared to exist in a state of perfect calm. Not a strand of her hair was disturbed.

Durwyn stared up at the green bubble surrounding them. “Is that the Mythal?”

“Nay, merely a force that protects us from predators whilst we conduct the incantation ceremony,” Anorrweyn said. “Let us begin.”

They parted to let her advance. When she reached the center of the circle, she offered a brief prayer to Mystra, then raised her hands toward the emerald and closed her eyes. “Qu’kiir vian ivae, qu’kiir nethmet.” Her voice was barely audible.

Thunder rumbled in the distance. “Ivae marat vand Cormanthor,” Anorrweyn chanted softly. “Mythal selen mhaor kenet. Qu’kiir vand tir t’nor.”

Anorrweyn’s hair and gown fluttered gently, as if stirred by a soft breeze. “Qu’kiir vian ivae, qu’kiir nethmet,” she repeated, this time more loudly.

Kestrel shook off the words’ hypnotic effect to edge closer to Ghleanna. “You speak Elvish, don’t you?” she said just loudly enough to be heard above the roar of the wind. “What does she say?”

Ghleanna leaned close, but never took her eyes off the priestess. “The words are ancient, so my understanding is limited,” she responded. “But roughly: Binding gem, awaken your light. Dance the weave of the Mythal. Bind it to me that I might drive corruption from our home.”

Anorrweyn reached the end of the verse once more. “Qu’kiir vand tir t’nor.” Another thunderclap boomed, much closer than the first. Without pause, she began again.

“Qu’kiir vian ivae, qu’kiir nethmet.” The priestess tossed back her head, entirely given over to the incantation. She chanted the mystical words in a clear, strong voice that rose above the wind’s howl. Her hair streamed behind her now, as if the natural forces of this plane finally touched her.

An enormous crack of thunder rent the air. Kestrel nearly jumped out of her skin as the echo reverberated through the night, but Anorrweyn never ceased in her chant. She shouted the words heavenward. “Qu’kiir vand tir t’nor!”

Slowly, Anorrweyn rose into the air as if drawn up by some unseen hand. When her fingertips touched the emerald, deep green light burst forth. The radiance spouted beyond the protective field and into the night sky, where it diffused into a wavery mantle of prismatic light that extended as far as the eye could see.

Kestrel gasped. Surely they gazed upon the Mythal itself.

The great Weave coursed with power beyond mortal comprehension, yet it was also a thing of overwhelming beauty. Strands of every hue interlaced in complex knot-work patterns that overlapped so tightly as to form an unbroken blanket of light and energy. The mantle enveloped the city as lovingly as a mother’s arms encircle her child.

Yet as they watched, an oily blackness—darker even than the night sky—stole into the fabric of the Weave, oozing between its strands. The taint spread, appearing to open up gaping holes in the sacred shield. Beyond lay not the stars of the heavens, but nothingness.

Suddenly, bolts of black lightning arced through the mantle. They converged into a single charge that raced straight down into the emerald. Kestrel instinctively backed up, expecting the gem to explode into a thousand pieces. It pulsed and shook under the assault.

But it held.

Instead, Anorrweyn absorbed the electrical feedback. The force violently wrenched the spirit out of contact with the emerald. She flew backward, between two of the spires and beyond the circle. The wind abruptly ceased as the gem dropped onto the stone floor. Above, the vision of the Mythal evaporated.

“Priestess!” Faeril rushed after the ghost. “Priestess! Where are you?”

Anorrweyn was gone.

They left the circle and searched furiously, hoping to catch a glimpse of the ghost behind one of the spires, but no sign of her remained. Corran regarded the others soberly. “I fear that blast destroyed her.”

Faeril choked down a sob and turned her face away.

“What do we do now?” Durwyn asked.

What, indeed? Kestrel fought back despair. It sickened her to think that Anorrweyn Evensong’s spirit had been obliterated. The gentle priestess had touched a part of Kestrel’s soul she hadn’t known existed—had awakened in her the fledgling desire to do the right thing with no thought of personal reward.

Now she was gone. Apparently, that’s where altruism got you in this world.

Damn this whole mission anyway. Misfortune dogged their every step, throwing new obstacles in their path before they could overcome the known ones. Now their path lay shrouded in more darkness than ever without the light of Anorrweyn’s goodness to aid them. What had the noble spirit’s sacrifice won? Kestrel reentered the circle and picked up the forgotten emerald. It twinkled in the starlight but appeared perfectly ordinary. She held it toward the sorcerers. “Did the ceremony take hold at all, or is this just a stupid piece of glass?”

Jarial and Ghleanna exchanged glances. The half-elf shrugged helplessly. “I have no idea.”

The party erupted in debate over how to proceed from here. Corran wanted to infiltrate Castle Cormanthor in search of the pool cavern. Jarial suggested returning to Caalenfaire to see whether the diviner could learn more through scrying. Ghleanna thought a good night’s sleep at Beriand’s shelter would help them clear their heads and gain some perspective. Faeril was too beside herself over Anorrweyn’s demise to voice an opinion.

Kestrel just wanted to get off the top of this building. There was no sign of the protective force field that had surrounded them during the ceremony, and she preferred to argue in a less exposed location. As she stood in the center of the circle, a faint fragrance caught her nostrils. A new calm washed over her. She inhaled deeply. Gardenias.

A moment later, Anorrweyn materialized before them. Her “body” appeared to have survived the ordeal unharmed, but her eyes bore a haunted look they hadn’t held previously.

“Priestess!” Faeril cried. “Are you all right? What happened?”

Anorrweyn met each of their gazes. Her visage held the expression of one who has dire news to impart. “I could not commune with the Mythal. The Weave rejected my attempt.”

Corran, whose face had become hopeful upon the ghost’s reappearance, now addressed her with grim resignation. “The Mythal’s corruption is too great to save it?”

The spirit shook her head sadly. “Worse. Another Gem of the Weave is already in use.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“Another gem?” Faeril exclaimed. “How is that possible?”

“Harldain gave us the only suitable replacement stone,” Corran added. “At least, that’s what he told us.”

Anorrweyn’s face clouded with disgust. “I doubt not the dwarven lord’s word. It is the Protector who, I fear, plays a dangerous game with the truth.”

Though the others looked at the priestess in confusion, a spark of understanding ignited in Kestrel. Anorrweyn did not speak of another replacement stone. “The baelnorn told us he destroyed the original gem—”

“We will see about that.” With a sweep of the ghost’s arm, a gate opened in the night air.

Beyond lay the torchlit lair of the Protector. “Come. Let us talk with Miroden Silverblade!”

The baelnorn appeared only mildly surprised by the party’s abrupt arrival in his chamber. He set aside the book he’d been reading and rose to greet them. “Good eve, my friends.” He looked each of them in the eye but could not meet Anorrweyn’s gaze. “Priestess Evensong.”

“I have known you many, many centuries, Miroden Silverblade,” the priestess began. Though her tone was harsh, it softened. “In life and in death, our paths intertwined as we struggled to save the City of Song from evils mundane and arcane. Through the Opening, the Weeping War, the occupation by creatures of the Abyss—always have we been on the same side.”

The Protector bowed his head as Anorrweyn continued. “Now that Myth Drannor faces its greatest threat yet, I fear our paths diverge. You have told these brave adventurers, who fight to save a city not their own, that you destroyed the Sapphire of the Weave. Miroden, I was present at the creation of the gem. I witnessed the Moment of Binding. I know that as you stand before me, the sapphire yet exists in this world.”

The priestess touched her hand to the baelnorn’s withered cheek. A tear wet her fingers. “You love this city more deeply than most of the People love their lifemates. What happened, Miroden, to make you betray your sacred duty as communicant? Where is the sapphire? Open your heart to me, old friend.”

The Protector closed his eyes and pressed Anorrweyn’s palm against his cheek. He sighed heavily—an anguished, heartrending moan—then tore his face away from her gentle touch. He crossed to the empty gem case and ran shaking hands over its surface. “I thought... I thought...” He extended his hands heavenward and dropped to his knees. “Mystra, forgive me!”

He collapsed, rocking on the floor as he hid his face from view. Anorrweyn laid her hands on the baelnorn’s shoulders and whispered words audible only to his ears. He nodded, reaching up to grasp one of her hands. The priestess continued her gentle murmurings. After a little while, he nodded a second time and rose.

“It is with the deepest shame that I stand before you,” the baelnorn said. His face seemed to have aged a century in mere minutes. “I allowed pride to blind me, and in so doing, I violated the sacred trust placed in me so many years ago.” He paused and looked at the priestess. “Anorrweyn’s suspicions are correct—the Sapphire of the Weave still exists.” The baelnorn lowered his head. “Kya Mordrayn has it.”

“That is not a cause for shame,” Corran said softly. “You are but one person. She had a whole cult to help her steal it from you.”

Silverblade raised his head sharply. A pained expression crossed it. “She did not steal it. I—I gave it to her.”

Kestrel gasped. She was not the only one—all of them regarded the so-called Protector with shock. How could he have done such a thing? She wanted to shout a thousand questions and a hundred epithets but held her tongue. The baelnorn shut his eyes against their incredulous expressions.

“Continue, Miroden,” Anorrweyn bade. “Tell us how it happened.”

“When the archmage first came to me, she spoke eloquently of Myth Drannor’s lost beauty and grace—of the silvertrees in the courtyard of the Maerdrym, of how the Windsong Towers brushed against the stars. Oh, how her words made me long for the old days, Anorrweyn! Times so long past even the People have started to forget.”

The baelnorn’s eyes held a faraway expression.

“Mordrayn told me she had discovered a way to restore the City of Song to its former splendor. By using the Mythal to summon a Pool of Radiance, we could infuse new life into the city. The fading Mythal would grow strong once more, and Myth Drannor, in turn, would rise to greatness again.”

The dreamlike trance faded as the Protector’s thoughts returned to the present. He ran his fingers along the edge of the empty gem case. “She told me that the fate of Myth Drannor rested in my hands alone, and in my foolish pride I believed her. I did not ask the questions I should have asked.” He met Anorrweyn’s penetrating gaze. “I wanted so much for her words to be true, for myself to be the one whose faith and perseverance restored the city, that I did not probe into the details of her plan.”

“I know that hope for the city’s revival has sustained you through centuries of lonely isolation,” Anorrweyn offered.

“That can never excuse my actions,” he said. “I surrendered the Sapphire of the Weave—the treasure entrusted to me so long ago by more worthy lords than I—to Mordrayn. I taught her the incantation. Mordrayn contacted the Mythal and directed its ancient power to create a Pool of Radiance deep within Castle Cormanthor. Only afterward did she reveal herself as an archmage in the Cult of the Dragon. By the time I realized the horror of what I had done, I could not stop her. The pool brought life, yes—stolen life. It spawns tendrils of itself in other cities and drains the spirits of the living to fuel the tainted Mythal.”

“A diabolical cycle,” Corran said. “What is her final purpose?”

“I do not know.” The baelnorn shook his head in bewilderment. “By Our Lady, this is not what I intended! I sought to redeem the City of Song—instead, I have damned it.”

“Nay, Miroden,” Anorrweyn said gently. “Hope lives. We have created a new Gem of the Weave.”

Some of the anguish left his face. He gazed at the party in amazement. “You succeeded? Then you can undo some of the damage I have wrought. You must break Mordrayn’s link with the Mythal.” The baelnorn passed his hand in front of the wall. An opening formed, revealing a passage behind. “This tunnel leads to the castle. Find the sapphire. Destroy it by touching it while speaking this word: Ethgonil. It is the Word of Redemption.”

Kestrel and the others hesitated, still trying to absorb all they’d heard. Kestrel felt she ought to be angry with the Protector for his betrayal, for setting in motion the events it now fell to her and her companions to stop. Yet, as she looked at the baelnorn’s shriveled form, his face wracked with shame, she felt only pity.

“Make haste,” Anorrweyn urged. “The cult cannot be allowed to poison the Mythal any further. I will return to the Speculum. When the sapphire is destroyed, I shall use the emerald to turn the Mythal’s power against our enemies. Then you can seize the Gauntlets of Moander from Mordrayn to destroy the pool.”

As they filed into the passage one by one, Kestrel stole a last glimpse at Miroden Silverblade. The elf lord who had for centuries defended the Sapphire of the Weave with strength and wisdom—who had willingly sacrificed his own life to protect the Mythal—once again huddled on the floor. Anorrweyn knelt beside him, drew his head into her lap and gently rocked the tortured spirit.

Kestrel felt she was observing grief too intense and private for an audience. She turned and entered the passage, leaving the ghosts to mourn in solitude. She and the others had no more time to dwell on the past.

Not if they were going to save the future.