"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."