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 the all 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 shine."
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 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 Faerun," 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: Fhaomiir."
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.