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 ho
nest 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.
Pool of Radiance Page 14
