Pool of Twilight

13

Patriarch Anton watched intently as Sister Sendara, augur of the Temple of Tyr, let the runestones slip through her fine-boned fingers. The timeworn pebbles, each carved with a holy symbol, tumbled onto a round silver plate. The wizened priestess peered at the stones, studying the pattern they made as they fell.

"What do you see in the temple's future, Sister Sendara?" Anton asked softly. The two were alone in a small candlelit antechamber off the temple's main hall.

"A moment, Anton," Sendara scolded. "Fate cannot be rushed."

Anton smiled at this gentle rebuke. Of all the clerics left in Phlan's temple of Tyr, only Sendara was older than he was, and only she spoke to him in such a familiar manner. If sometimes she was not as respectful to the patriarch as custom dictated, Anton took no offense. After all, Sendara had been a full cleric of the faith when he could do little more than coo and slumber in his mother's arms.

"These are ill-tidings," she said finally in a cracked voice.

"What is it?" Anton glowered at the stones scattered across the silver platter. They meant nothing to his untrained eyes.

"A shadow approaches the temple of Tyr." Sendara's dark eyes were like bright chips of obsidian. "A foe who has attacked us once before gathers together even greater strength. Soon we will be awash in a sea of darkness."

"Are you certain?"

The ancient priestess frowned at Anton, hands on the hips of her soft gray robe. "It's not as if I'm making this up for dramatic effect, you know."

Anton sighed deeply, placing his hands on her thin shoulders. "I know, Sendara. I know. It is difficult news to bear, that's all."

"As will be the dark days to come." Sendara extricated herself from his grasp. "But there is more, Anton, and on this the runes speak clearly." She gazed at the scattered stones again. "Phlan has suffered many foes and many battles in its history. But none have ever been so dire, or so important, as this. We must prevail in our coming trials, or all will be lost."

"What do you mean, Sendara?"

"I mean, Anton," she said somberly, "that if the temple of Tyr falls before the hammer is returned, then all of Phlan is doomed. Forever."

She gathered her runestones and slipped them into a small silken pouch, leaving Anton alone in the antechamber to contemplate her words. A chill had settled in the old patriarch's bones, but he didn't know if it was from the wintry air or Sendara's frightening words. He found himself wondering once again how Kern and the others were faring on their quest for Tyr's hammer.

A thought struck him. He left the antechamber, making his way through the temple's upper corridors. It was after vespers, and candles had been lit against the gathering gloom outside. He knocked on a small wooden door and entered a room, finding Tarl Desanea sitting in a stiff-backed chair. His stricken wife lay before him. Tarl had moved her from their tower to the sanctuary of the temple several days before. Anton could hear her breathing, painfully slow in its rhythm.

"It's dark in here," the patriarch rumbled softly, lighting a candle.

Tarl shrugged his massive shoulders. "It isn't as if either Shal or I care."

Anton winced. Sometimes he forgot that Tarl was blind.

"You didn't come to evening prayers." Anton sat in a chair next to his friend.

"I said my prayers here," Tarl answered. His voice was flat and toneless, but Anton caught the bitterness in it.

Anton took a deep breath. "Have you received any sign that might tell you how the Hammerseeker fares, Brother Tarl? Any word from Tyr?"

Tarl's blind eyes seemed to gaze out the darkened window. "Nothing. I have felt nothing."

After a moment's hesitation, Anton decided to tell Tarl his reason for asking. He recounted the augury that Sister Sendara had just prescribed. If the temple fell, Phlan would be lost.

Tarl turned his sightless eyes toward Anton. "Phlan will be lost?" His haggard voice was almost mocking. "If Kern does not return, Anton, my family will be lost. If Kern perishes, then so will Shal. I will have no one." He hung his head, at a loss for more words.

Anton's shaggy eyebrows knitted into a scowl. Lately, Tarl had been sinking into a black despair, but Anton had not realized how hopeless the cleric's attitude was until now. This could not go on. "There are others besides you and your loved ones to think of, cleric of Tyr," Anton said sternly. "Regardless of whether the Hammerseeker succeeds or fails, the temple must stand. All of us must be ready to fight the coming battle."

"Really?" Tarl asked hoarsely. "And how does a blind cleric fight, Anton? Shall I have good Brother Dameron point me toward the enemy and kindly tell me when to start swinging?" He shook his head fiercely. "No. I wish you luck in your battle, Anton, but my own battle is here." He reached out a hand to smooth Shal's fiery hair from her pallid brow.

Anton rose from his chair, suddenly angry. "Do not speak to me of your private battles, Tarl. I have watched as, one by one, our brothers and sisters have been struck down by the scourges sent by the gods of evil, the enemies of Tyr. I have watched as foul disease rotted their bodies in the space of an hour, and as searing flames consumed them in an agonizing minute, all because the temple's aura could no longer protect them."

Anton clenched his big hands into fists. "The day you survived the scourge sent against you, Tarl, I was filled with joy. It gave me hope that the temple could withstand the evil with which the gods of darkness afflict Phlan. But now I see that I was wrong." He paused by the door, his face grim. "We have lost you after all, Brother Tarl."

The patriarch left, shutting the door behind him.

Tarl clenched his hands into fists. Who was Anton to speak to him so, as if he were simply some sulky acolyte feeling sorry for himself? Why couldn't he see there was nothing Tarl could do to help the temple, let alone his wife and son?

But gradually the rage ebbed in Tarl's heart.

A remembered voice echoed in his mind. Never forget, husband. You are the same man you always were.

Shal. She would have agreed with Anton, Tarl knew. But her words seemed so distant now, so hollow.

"I am different, Shal," he whispered to her sleeping form, reaching out a hand to grip hers tightly. "And I will never be the same again."

In a distant chamber high in the temple, Sister Sendara reached down and removed one of the thirteen rune-stones scattered on the table before her, slipping it into a black velvet pouch. Now only a dozen remained, leaving the pattern incomplete.

"We are doomed," she whispered to the night.

She blew out the lone candle, but there would be no sleep for her that night.

Deep beneath the Dragonspine Mountains, a howl of sublime fury echoed off the cavern's glistening limestone stalactites.

A hideously malformed creature hobbled on clawed feet to the edge of the pool of twilight, greasy black wings flapping feebly in useless agitation. Magical energy still surrounded the creature, the residue of the powerful spell that had, in the space of a heartbeat, carried her to this place.

"I had it!" Sirana screeched. "The Hammer of Tyr. I held it in my hands!"

She lifted her arms and gazed at the burnt, horribly twisted claws that had been delicate hands only moments earlier. Another shriek of rage escaped her lopsided mouth, rattling the very foundation of the mountains.

Something stirred beneath the pool's dull, metallic waters.

You should have known the holy power of Tyr's hammer would reject the touch of evil, a voice bubbled up from the murky depths.

"Why did you not see fit to share this valuable information with me?" the half-erinyes wizard ranted.

You did not deign to ask me, sorceress.

"You wretched worm! Do you dare mock me?" She raised a gnarled claw, ready to fling a bolt of magic to the cavern's ceiling and send a rain of razor-sharp stalactites plunging into the pool.

Never would I mock you, sorceress, the guardian of the pool whined. Come, place your hands in my waters. I will take your pain away.

Momentarily placated, Sirana knelt by the edge of the pool and slipped her hands into the viscous water. Suddenly dozens of glowing flecks appeared, swirling about her wrists like miniature stars. She gasped, feeling a strange tingling in her fingers. She jerked her hands out of the pool.

"What have you done to my-" she began suspiciously. Suddenly she halted, entranced. Her hands! They were whole again. The pain caused by the Hammer of Tyr had vanished. In wonderment, Sirana flexed her fingers. They were smooth and shapely, ending in delicately curved nails as dark and hard-edged as obsidian.

Yet the rest of her was as hideous as ever.

She could use magic to cloak herself with the disguise of beauty, but that could never change the misbegotten form that was her natural condition. Yet the pool could! Ah, how glorious it would be, to be truly beautiful, just like her mother had been.

I cannot, sorceress. Unless, of course, you are willing to submerge yourself in the pool…

For a fleeting moment, Sirana was tempted.

But only for a moment. She laughed, a sound filled with loathing and contempt. "A clever trick, beast. But not clever enough." She stood, eyes blazing.

"I told you that I will not free you until you have granted me the power I need to destroy Phlan." Magic crackled away from her in every direction. Smoking chunks of rock fell from the cavern's roof, exploding like bombs as they struck the pool. Its waters roiled turbulently as the guardian writhed beneath. "Now, I demand that you give me more power, beast. Power enough to destroy Phlan once and for all!"

As you wish, great sorceress! the guardian sniveled. Drink! Drink, and the power shall be yours.

A silver chalice rose out of the pool and hovered before Sirana. She grasped it with her newly restored hands. Once before, she had drunk but a mere drop of the twilight pool's waters and had gained fantastic power-enough to summon a dreamstalker from a distant world. What would be the effect of drinking an entire chalice of the liquid? She gazed at the metallic fluid within the cup, hesitating. Brilliant flecks of light swirled beneath its surface.

"I must have the might to destroy Phlan!" she whispered.

Her hesitation faded. She raised the chalice to her lips and drained its thick, oily contents in a single draught.

The chalice clattered to the hard stone and rolled away. Sirana reeled, her heart pounding furiously. Magical energy like she had never before imagined surged through her veins. It buoyed her, lifting her so that her feet hardly touched the ground. She raised her arms in exultation, feeling the soft fabric of shadows sift through her fingers. Understanding rippled through her mind. One drop of the pool had granted her the ability to see all the myriad shades of darkness that existed in a single shadow. But now she could cup that darkness in her hands, mold it, shape its form, and breathe evil life into it.

Yes, sorceress, the guardian of the pool whispered in her mind. You can forge shadow images of any creature you desire, and they will serve you with all the powers of twilight!

"I shall create an army!" she cried, gathering the stuff of shadows about her, draping it around her deformed body. "An army of shadows!"

She wasted no time. With her hands and mind, she began to mold the darkness into a fearsome form. She gave it long, muscular arms and serrated fangs in a jackal-shaped snout. Last she fashioned a sinuous tail ending in razor-sharp spikes.

She stood back and admired her handiwork. Now this was a fiend like none that had ever dwelled in the Nine Hells. A fiend born of shadow, whose only purpose was to serve Sirana. It bowed to her, and she clapped her hands in evil delight. Then she reached out, gathering more darkness to create another shadow fiend…

Suddenly she froze. She felt a strange prickling sensation, as if sensing the touch of a distant, roving eye. It lasted only for a second, then was gone.

Sirana shivered. "What was that?" she demanded of the guardian.

An enemy journeys through the mountains, seeking the pool.

"What?" Sirana snarled in outrage. "Show me."

The surface of the pool swirled. An image appeared, showing a stream tumbling through a narrow mountain valley. A woman with long chestnut-colored hair picked her way among the rocks, a large, tawny cat padding behind her. Numerous pouches hung at the woman's belt.

"Evaine!" Sirana recognized the sorceress from their earlier meeting.

The sorceress hunts pools like an owl hunts mice. She would destroy the pool of twilight, mistress. I have felt her magical detections reaching out for me once before. I thought I had dealt her a blow strong enough to annihilate her.

"Apparently you failed," Sirana observed venomously. She paced beside the pool's edge. "I shall simply have to deal with this meddlesome sorceress myself." A cruel smile curled about her misshapen lips. "And I think I know just the way."

She closed her eyes, sending forth a summons. "Come to me, dreamstalker. Come, and heed your leader's call!"

There was a hiss of dank, musty air. Ragged tatters of shadow began to swirl in front of Sirana. The half-erinyes plunged her hand into the midst of the shadow, her fingers closing around a dark, slender strand. With all her might, she pulled on the thread. The vortex of shadow exploded, and the ethereal form of the bastellus materialized before Sirana.

"What do you wish of me, mistress?" the dreamstalker intoned in its somnolent voice.

"This woman is my enemy," Sirana snapped, gesturing toward the image in the pool. "I want you to feed upon her dreams. Feed until every last shred of her sanity has been consumed! Do you understand?"

The bastellus Sigh nodded. It could sense the power of the long-haired woman in the image reflected in the pool. Draining her spirit through her dreams would be satisfying indeed. With a grateful bow, Sigh melted into the air.

Sirana smirked. "Try to destroy my pool, will she?" She ran a slender finger under the jutting chin of the shadow fiend she had just created, then threw her head back and laughed.

Like tiny stars, faint sparks of light began to swirl beneath her skin, glowing the exact same color as the shining flecks of twilight in her eyes.

While Sirana gloated over her plans, reveling in her new abilities, the guardian sank to the bottom of the twilight pool.

The creature was well pleased.

The half-erinyes was becoming more and more ensnared by the magic of the pool. The guardian had been only too glad to grant her another drink of the pool's waters. Each taste would only make her hunger for more, and no matter how much the creature gave her, it would never be enough to satisfy her abominable cravings. It was only a matter of time before she succumbed to the temptation to submerge herself in the pool, to embrace its vast power. The moment she did, the guardian would be free. And the insufferable half-fiend would find herself imprisoned within the pool as its new guardian.

The creature writhed in the murky depths, sending bubbles floating sluggishly upward through the thick, metallic water. Ah, how glorious, to fly again! What havoc the creature would be able to wreak once free of the blasted pool!

Sirana thought she had cause for vengeance against Phlan, but her hatred was nothing compared to the creature's own. Its loathing of that damnable city had grown during centuries of entrapment. Its strength had grown as well during those long, agonizing years. Once free, the creature's power would be nearly as limitless as its hatred. And then Phlan would pay for its past transgressions…

Soon, Dusk, the guardian murmured to itself. Very, very soon.

It had to be patient. But there was not much longer to wait.

Kern had always thought that the day he regained the Hammer of Tyr would be a day of unparalleled joy. But despite the solid weight of the ancient relic resting at his hip, he didn't feel much like celebrating.

They had gathered in the aspen grove at dawn to bid their last farewells to Ren. The first steely beams of light slanted between the ghostly trees, sparkling as they fell upon the fine dusting of new snow that mantled the ground. The winter air was cold, the wind perfectly still. It was almost as if the whole world were holding its breath.

Daile stood beside her father's body, gazing at the two magical daggers she held in her hands. Right and Left.

"Use your father's weapons well, Daile," Miltiades said solemnly. "You are Daile o' the Blade now."

"No," she said softly, shaking her head. She looked up, her blue eyes cold as ice. "These daggers protected me beneath the red tower, but I could never wield them like my father. No one could. They are his, and no other's."

Daile knelt and slipped the two blades into their sheaths in Ren's boots. Then she stood straight, unslinging her ashwood bow from her shoulder. She drew a red-feathered arrow from the quiver on her back and pulled back against the bowstring, aiming for the sky. With a cry, she released the arrow. It sped high into the slate-blue dome above. The arrow traveled upward until Kern lost sight of it.

Suddenly the two daggers tucked into Ren's boots quivered. Each gave a small jerk as the knobs on the end of their hilts popped open. Two small, smooth stones rose out of the compartments concealed in the dagger hilts to whirl about Daile's head. The others stared in wonder.

Miltiades recognized the small stones. "They are Ren's ioun stones."

Daile nodded. She knew the story behind the stones. They had been stolen by a woman named Tempest, a thief. Tempest had been Ren's first love, but she was murdered by the Lord of the Ruins, the dragon who had sought to control the pool of radiance in the ruins thirty years earlier.

The two ioun stones settled onto Daile's bow and embedded themselves in the wood with a faint click. The longbow hummed brightly in the ranger's grip, then was quiescent once again. Daile nodded in understanding. The magical stones were her father's last gift to her.

She lowered her bow, her shoulders stiff and square. "From now on, I am Daile Redfletching," she said grimly.

The others nodded dumbly, alarmed at the ferocity in the young ranger's voice and the coldness in her eyes. Without a word, Daile turned to make her way back to the campfire.

The companions ate a cheerless breakfast of dried fruit and flatbread by the scant warmth of the fire. Miltiades, who had no use for food, instead drew a small brooch from a leather purse. The brooch was wrought of gold and set with a single clear gemstone.

"Evaine gave it to me," he explained to the others, "so that we might communicate with each other. I think she would care to know that you have gained the hammer, Kern. As well as the sorrowful news about Ren."

The skeletal paladin whispered the word of magic Evaine had taught him that activated the brooch. The crystal flashed, and an image appeared within its facets. The image showed a snowy, wind-scoured crag rising high above a range of jagged peaks. There was no sign of Evaine anywhere.

"Where is she?" Kern asked with a frown.

Miltiades shook his head. "I do not know. If she still possessed the brooch, she would know I am calling her."

"She must have lost it," Listle said worriedly. "But where? Unless mountains have a habit of growing overnight, I don't think that's the forest around her dwelling."

"Those are the Dragonspine Mountains," Daile said, peering into the gem. "I recognize them from the map that Evaine created with my father's help."

Miltiades uttered another magical word. The gem went dark. "This can only mean one thing. Evaine has journeyed into the mountains."

"But why?" Kern asked.

Listle's eyes widened in realization. "Don't you see? She intends to destroy the pool of twilight! Ridding Faerun of the pools is her life's quest." The elf swore sharply. "We should have known she would try something like this."

"Well, maybe Evaine knows what she's doing," Kern offered. "After all, I don't think there's anyone who knows more about pools within a thousand leagues of here."

"That is true, Kern," Miltiades replied. "But no matter how wise Evaine may be, she cannot realize that Sirana is drawing power from the pool. I doubt she expects to face another sorceress, let alone a half-fiend mage who is in league with the magic of the twilight pool." The skeletal knight's breastplate shuddered. Kern would almost have thought it a sigh if Miltiades had been in the habit of breathing.

"Then we have to go after her, to warn her!" Kern stood.

Miltiades raised a gauntlet, halting him. "You forget, Kern. The Dragonspine Mountains are nearly a tenday's ride from this place. With her scrying spells, Evaine will certainly discover the pool before we reach her, no matter how hard we ride. Indeed, she may have already located it."

Kern hung his head in despair. "We have to warn her somehow," he said without much confidence.

"I think I might be able to arrange something," Listle said, hurrying over to her leather backpack. "I found these yesterday while I was wandering around the maze in the ruins. Something told me they might come in handy."

She pulled two cylindrical objects from her pack. With a flick of her wrist, she unrolled one of them. It was a bright, intricately patterned carpet.

Kern eyed the carpet skeptically. "Maybe I'm missing something here, but I fail to see how a rug is going to solve our problems."

Listle snorted with annoyance. "Sometimes you have absolutely no imagination, Kern." She snapped her fingers, and abruptly the carpet rose several feet off the ground, its golden fringe fluttering. "These are flying carpets!" Listle hopped onto the hovering carpet while the others watched in amazement. The elf positively beamed. "What in the world would you do without my help?"

"I shudder to think," Miltiades said, a note in his dry voice that might almost have been amusement.

Their decision was made easy for them. While Kern wanted nothing more than to hurry back to Shal and Tarl, he knew they must go to warn Evaine.

"I suppose this means we'll have to leave you behind," Listle said sadly, stroking the muzzle of her gray pony.

"I don't think you need bid your steed farewell, Listle," Miltiades said.

"I wish you were right, Miltiades," Listle answered glumly. "But somehow I doubt the horses will fit on the magic carpets."

"We'll see," Miltiades replied mysteriously.

The undead paladin whispered something into the ear of his magical white stallion, Eritophenes, who then pranced toward Listle's pony. Eritophenes bent his head over the dappled gray and snorted. A pale mist encircled the pony, and suddenly the horse shimmered, shrinking in size until it became a tiny gray figurine standing in the snow. Eritophenes moved to the other horses, and in moments they, too, had been transformed by the stallion's magical breath into miniatures. Eritophenes let out a whinny, then also glowed brightly, shrinking into a small, prancing figure.

Miltiades gathered the miniature horses and placed them safely in a pouch. Kern could only shake his head in wonder. That was another problem solved.

"Now if I could only do that with Kern when he's acting uncooperative," Listle mused.

"You know, Listle, you're really not as funny as you think you are," Kern grumped.

She gave him a flat stare. "What makes you think I'm joking?"

Quickly they broke camp and packed their things onto the carpets. But when it was time to go, Daile hesitated.

"I'm sorry, Kern," she said quietly. "But I can't go with you. At least not yet. I… I have to take my father back to the Valley of the Falls. I know he would want to lie by my mother's side."

Kern nodded gravely, gripping her shoulder tightly. He hated to part company with the ranger.

"Take one of the carpets, Daile," Listle offered. "We three can all fit on one." She shot Kern a wry look. "If this big oaf doesn't hog all the space, that is."

Kern nodded. "Do take it, Daile. And when you can, come find us in the mountains."

"I will, Kern. I promise."

With that, Kern, Miltiades, and Listle climbed onto one of the undulating carpets. At a signal from the elf, it rose into the air and sped northward.

Daile watched as the carpet dwindled to a speck, then vanished from sight. A frigid wind picked up, blowing her red-gold hair from her brow as she turned to face the dawning sun.

"I swear that I will avenge you, Father," she whispered. Her words were snatched away by the wind. "With the sky as my witness, I swear it."

Daile Redfletching turned her back on the brilliant orb of the sun and, taking the second flying carpet, trudged up the slope toward the grove of aspens.